In Trutina
by PoetHrotsvitha
Summary: If asked to compare his sister to something, Jacob would have picked anything that he considered beautiful and deadly. A poisonous flower, perhaps. Asked the same thing of her brother, Evie would have dismissed the question but secretly imagined an unruly dog. The kind that continually poops on the rug, and yet, you can't stay mad at. (WARNING: Incest)
1. Prelude

Jacob gently pushed the heavy study door open, the light from the windows illuminating the dust dancing along the floor. Ethan Frye kept his eyes on the papers at his desk, wearily waving Jacob over to sit down. Jacob slumped into the chair, staring at the ceiling as the silence stretched on. He had debated even coming. A summons like this always meant a lecture.

"I need to speak to you," his father finally started, "because a man was found dead last night."

"Oh?" Jacob replied lightly, still looking up.

 _He was too angry and too drunk, and his blade slightly missed the main artery. Blood spurted wildly from the wound, onto the man's silk dressing gown and the expensive rug, soaking everything as he rasped under Jacob's weight._

"I need to know you weren't involved," his father said quietly.

 _The bastard grabbed a bottle lying on the floor and smashed it into Jacob's head, the glass shattering and expensive port slopping everywhere. As Jacob lurched sideways, the man shoved the broken bottle towards Jacob's face, missing his eye by less than an inch and slicing into his brow._

"Me?" Jacob spread his hands into a shrug. "I'm innocent as a lamb."

 _Temporarily blinded, Jacob leapt backwards, staggering towards the window where he'd entered. The man was thrashing on the floor, clutching at his own neck and rasping his last breaths. Jacob crouched forward and stamped viciously on the rich bastard's chest, satisfaction creeping through him as he felt ribs crunch under his boots and heard a desperate gurgle of pain. "That's for Polly," he hissed. He grabbed a pillow and tugged the cover off, quickly sliced it into a long bandage to wrap around his still-bleeding eye, and crawled back out of the window._

Ethan sighed. "You haven't been innocent since the day you were born."

 _Polly. He'd met Polly almost a year ago when she'd sidled up to him at the pub. "'Ello, lovey," she'd started by way of introduction, placing a wrinkled hand on his arm. He had assumed she was looking to ply her wares. The garish dress and cheap face paint explained her profession well enough._

"Not even believed by my own father," Jacob mumbled. "There's no trust at all in this family."

" _I wanted to meet to one o' the famous Fryes," she said, snatching his drink and taking a swig before he could protest. "Never at any o' the village events, keeps to themselves, never even goes to church, or so they say- I'd never know as I never goes myself!" She laughed again at her own irreverence, and it was so infectious that Jacob found himself grinning incredulously._

"It would help if you gave me any reason to trust you." Ethan was peering at Jacob as though he wished that he could simply crawl into Jacob's head, discover the truth directly, and thus avoid this entire conversation. Father looked at son, a curious mirror, neither of them able to relax.

" _The whole village is curious and I can't resist me a mystery. Tha', and I couldn't help but take pity on you, poor lamb," she leaned forward and gestured at him with his own beer. "You always look so awkward with the girls about here. Well, I tell you wot. I've decided I'm going to teach you wot's wot, for the very reasonable price of two shillins an hour."_

Jacob pouted. "I've been a model of decorum, not that anyone gives me any credit."

 _His shock must have showed on his face, because she punched him in the shoulder. "Not like that," she said, as he rubbed his arm. She was surprisingly strong. "Don't look so disgusted, you'll offend a lady. I mean I'll just tell you, like. Talk about how babies are made, unless your Pa's explained?" His eyebrows rose towards his hairline, and she cackled. "Thought not. Seen him in the markets, he don't look the talking type."_

"If only that were the case, and yet-," his father broke off and took a deep breath. "The man who was killed last night, Sir Edward Maule, was a local landowner and a powerful man. Does this sound familiar?"

" _So I says to myself, Polly, that boy goes so awkward when a girl gets friendly, and that can only mean 'e's nervous, and if 'e's nervous that means 'e don't know enough, and that means a business opportunity for old Polly." She tapped her forehead and grinned, revealing a few missing teeth. "So you come by my rooms, I'm on the first floor above the White Hart. Come on Tuesday mornin'. Bring two shillins. I'll tell you all there is to know and I'll never breath a word about it to another soul." And with that, with Jacob not having said more than two words for the whole interaction, she wandered off to flirt with another patron._

"Never heard of him," Jacob mumbled.

 _The whole situation was so strange that he almost didn't go, but then it occurred to him that Evie and Father would have strongly disapproved. This, of course, was justification enough on its own. It was easy enough to sneak out; training at night meant keeping odd hours, so Father and Evie were usually sound asleep until past noon. Polly had opened the door delightedly. The room was cramped and shabby but neat, and she somehow looked younger without the face paint. She had served him tea in a chipped cup and poured a generous dollop of brandy in it for them both._

"Are you sure? Because his death has upset a lot of equally powerful people in the area, Jacob, and the Council is angry."

 _In that first visit, she explained how babies were made, how women had courses, and how they knew when they were pregnant. On the second visit, she explained the tricks of preventing pregnancy. The third, various ways that a woman can give a man pleasure, and the fourth, how a man can give pleasure to a woman. She was so baldly free of shame that it was hard to be embarrassed. Jacob found himself mostly listening, occasionally making a quip that would produce a hearty guffaw and a slap on the shoulder._

"Why would the Council even be involved?"

 _Eventually, Jacob started to offer little bits of information about himself. About his boredom in Crawley, about his frustration at feeling so useless and trapped, his distance from his father. At some point, several months in, Polly had declared that she had no more to teach him. As he left, unexpectedly disappointed that the visits were over, she said "bring a slice o' cake next week, we'll share. No raisins," and snapped the door shut._

"There are signs that the killing was done by an Assassin," Ethan replied.

 _The visits became a high point of his week. Polly had a way of mocking her clients that brought him to delighted laughter, and she appreciated having a good listener. He endured a bit of ribbing about it from the men in the pub- it was hard to visit a whore at 10 in the morning on Tuesdays without drawing comment, especially an older one who wasn't exactly beautiful- but he didn't mind. He just knocked a few heads together and they left him alone after that._

"What sort of signs?" Jacob said, trying not to sound too interested.

 _One visit not too long ago, she squared her shoulders. "Jacob, I got a question wot's been bothering me- look, normally when a boy hits a bit o' an age, 'e learns the ways of the world from his family, or a friend, or maybe 'e's seen enough farm animals to know wi'out askin'. Don't gimme that look, Jacob, I know you didn't 'ave those options," she said, wagging a finger at him. "But when a man can't learn from those and 'e's as 'andsome as you are, 'e usually finds a nice village girl wot's got a pretty smile for him, and 'e figures it out. It's not hard. So… Are you interested in the lads? 'S not as unusual as you might think"_

"It might have been the shape of the blade or the style of the kill," his father said dryly, "but it was probably the fact that the man was in his study three stories above the ground, no doors or windows were forced, and none of the army of fifty servants saw a thing."

 _He choked on his tea. "Wait, no, hold on," he sputtered, "I don't really know if- I mean," he could feel his face turning red, conscious that he was close to a confession he didn't feel like making, "that's not why." She waited. He fiddled with his cup. "There's already someone," he started awkwardly, "a girl, but I can't…" He trailed off into silence. She squinted at him. "She married?" she asked. He shook his head. "Preacher's daughter?" He shook it again. There was a silence. "Not a bloody Papist nun," she snorted. Jacob didn't even dignify that with a reply. She drummed her fingers against her cup. "Have you told 'er you're interested?". "Can't," he mumbled._

"Well, like I said before," Jacob said, "don't know anything about it."

" _That's tosh, you can always tell 'er," she said incredulously. "Jacob, I thought you were braver than this." Maybe it was the brandy she put in the tea, or the shock of already nearly having made one deeply private confession, or the fact that he'd never really had a friend before, but he found the words escaping his mouth before he even knew that he was doing. "Evie," he muttered._

"Perhaps," his father said, sighing again. "Nevertheless, for reasons that pain me, the Council's first thought in the face of a rogue assassination was you." Ethan's eyes settled on Jacob's brow. "How did you get that cut above your eye?"

" _Your sister?" she whispered. He couldn't look up, terror curdling the tea in his stomach. She would be disgusted by him now. When he heard her stand and reach out towards him, he was sure that she was going to slap him and tell him to get out. Instead, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder._

"Oh, this? Got it from Evie, when we were sparring."

" _Listen, lad, sometimes we just loves who we loves and that's that."_ _When he looked up, she was staring into the space above his head with a sad smile. "You can't let yourself feel bad 'bout wot you do, 'specially if you don't feel like you've got another choice. Hopefully you'll meet a nice girl and the whole thing will pass, eh? Now," she suddenly stood up and busied herself making another pot of tea. "Did I tell you about a travelling gentleman wot I had the other day? Oh, he dressed nice, but you wouldn't believe wot 'e liked!"_

"Evie doesn't make mistakes like that," his father said, eyes narrowing.

 _Their visits continued on like usual and they never discussed Evie again. But then, a few weeks ago, he knocked and Polly didn't answer. He started dropping by at different times, but she never came to the door. He even started hovering around the pub where they had first met, knowing that she often looked for customers there, but there was no sign of her. The publican knew nothing._

Jacob shrugged for what felt like the eighth time in the past ten minutes. Maybe he was overdoing it, he thought, and straightened slightly. "It was my mistake. I overbalanced. She nicked my eyebrow. It happens."

 _After a few drinks last night, it finally occurred to him that he should try asking the other girls. A few of them were sitting in the corner, so he wandered over and asked if they knew where Polly had been. After establishing that he definitely didn't want to be a customer but would be willing to pay for information, the tallest followed him to a corner booth._

"You made a mistake," his father repeated slowly, incredulously. "You, my son, Jacob Frye, are admitting to a mistake without Evie holding a gun to your head."

" _Polly's been recovering," the girl said in a low voice. "She couldn't go back to her apartment, wot with it not being no secret, where she lives. One of the other girls has been keepin' 'er, lookin' after 'er, trying to help 'er get better." Jacob felt a cold feeling start at the pit of his stomach. "Recovering from what?"_

Jacob made a face. "It happens," he said again. "And you know what?" he said, looking directly at his Father, "maybe the dead bastard deserved it." It was the closest he planned to get to confessing.

 _The girl's face darkened. "We tries to look out for each other, we do, and a few weeks back this- this bastard- got a'hold of little Annie- she's one of the smallest of us, an' 'e were making 'er cry and scream, and Polly walked by, an' she flew at 'im." The girl's voice started to shake lightly. "This monster, 'e's done it afore, 'e never pays, and the girls are always a wreck when 'e's done. Just because 'e's rich and fancy, 'e thinks 'e can do as 'e pleases, and Polly, she'd 'ad enough. 'E didn't take kindly to that, and 'e let 'er know. Annie ran and found some of us. When we got to Polly, we thought she were dead."_

"Maybe he did," his father said, "but it's the Council's decision to make. We are here to free people from tyranny and control and eliminate the Templars, not act as indiscriminate killers."

 _Jacob's breathing felt strangled. "Has anything- has anyone done anything?" The girl eyed him sideways. "No one does anything for us," she spoke slowly, as if he was too stupid to understand. "We're just whores."_

"And what makes the Council so qualified," Jacob said bitterly.

" _What's his name," he hissed, "who's this bastard, where does he live-"_

"We live by a code," his father replied, a reply that Jacob had heard more times than he could count. "It must be followed."

" _Edward Maule," the girl spat. "Big estate out past the mill, righ' near the big carriage bridge over the river. Lovely wife and kids. Good, god-fearin' man, pillar o' the church," she laughed with no humour._

Jacob leant forward and closed his eyes, resting his head on his hands, feeling the cut that was still throbbing beneath the bandages. This was not an argument worth having, not right now, he decided.

 _He left the pub in a fury, grabbing a horse and promising himself that he would return it later. Big house out past the mill, he thought, spurring the horse on. The son of a bitch would suffer for this._

Jacob stood decisively; the conversation was over. "I don't know anything about it," he said again, and started to walk towards the door. He felt his father hesitate and decide to let him go. There had been enough yelling matches before for both of them to know it wouldn't change anything.

 _The bastard had paid in blood, and it was worth it._

* * *

Evie watched Jacob stalk away from the study door, stomping up the stairs. She was about to call after him when she heard her father call her name. "Coming," she replied, giving up on asking Jacob how the conversation had gone. She was fairly certain that she could guess most of it anyway.

She made her way into the study and settled into the chair that Jacob had clearly just vacated, her eyes travelling over the piles of papers scattered across the room. Her father leaned back and pinched the bridge of his nose, looking more tired than she remembered seeing him recently.

 _She had spent the previous evening translating letters with her father from Latin, trying to track the movements of a precursor object that had once been contained in the Vatican. They had obtained two trunks worth of papers without knowing if their contents would be valuable; the original owner of the trunks had made it a lead that they couldn't pass up, even if it was a reach. As soon as they picked the trunks open, however, it became clear that there would be many hours of work before they knew if there was a payoff._

"Perhaps you should be in bed?" she suggested, and he just shook his head grimly.

 _The potential was so exciting that they even skipped the usual training and sparring, opting to work side by side, passing the dictionary back and forth. It was in these moments that she felt closest to him, working towards a common passion, eyes firmly set on a shared goal. When they took a short break for tea, he had even been forced to admit that she was becoming the superior when it came to Latin translation. She had eventually stumbled into bed full of satisfaction, her head spinning with declensions._

Her father looked towards her, brow furrowed. "Did you hear your brother go out last night?"

 _It was the early hours of the morning when a knock at her door dragged her from a deep sleep. She initially tried to ignore it, but it only grew more insistent. Eventually, she dragged her robe on while trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes. It could only be Jacob, she thought. God help him if he was drunk and wanting to brag about winning at a gambling again._

"He always goes out when there isn't a mission," she responded. That, at least, was true.

 _It was Jacob, but her heart froze when she saw him. He was slumped against the wall, the cloth held to his face covered in blood. He practically collapsed against her when she reached out in horror. She couldn't begin to imagine how much blood he had lost- it was everywhere, on his clothes, in his hair, down his face and neck_.

"Evie, please, don't be deliberately vague. I'm in no mood. Did anything usual happen last night?"

 _He explained the situation in fragments while she used her wash basin to clean out his wound. She was relieved to discover that it was small and that most of the bleeding was likely to do with the location of the cut rather than its depth or size. He hissed when she used alcohol on the cut. She muttered that he should stop being such a baby, and he muttered that he wasn't, and the automatic nature of it almost made her smile._

"No, I didn't see anything. I know that Jacob left as usual, to go do whatever it is that he normally does without any regard for anyone, but I didn't hear him come back."

 _She couldn't pinpoint exactly when Jacob had started avoiding her, nor could she explain why he was doing it. She had spent a while trying to call after him as he left to skip training, left to ignore their father, left to ignore her. It hurt, but she was hardly going to admit that. So she ignored him back, and when it became too unbearable, she went to his empty room to enjoy the smell of him and remember happier days. Not that he knew that, of course. It was easier to be curt than to be vulnerable._

Her father looked at her for a long moment and she squirmed internally. Lying to anyone else would've been second nature, but lying to him was unfamiliar territory.

 _Once she basically understood what had happened and neatly bandaged the wound, she thought quickly, laying out all of the possibilities in her mind. "We could get Father-", she started, but Jacob had cut her off harshly. "No," he snapped, "he'd never understand." Evie chewed on her lip and tried to think. Jacob was already in so much trouble with Father and the Council. Despite her irritation at his lackadaisical attitude towards- well, towards basically everything- she didn't want him to be sent away or face serious repercussions. She wanted him to be nearby, even if he wasn't actually around much as of late._

She called on her training and became her calmest self. She raised an eyebrow at her father, challenging his doubtful silence. "What?"

" _Here's what we're going to do," she finally said. "Did you leave anything back there?" Jacob shook his head. "I'm going to ride the horse back to the pub and walk back, I shouldn't be more than an hour. Strip out of those clothes and I'll take them with me- I'll bury them somewhere, there's too much blood to explain it away with a training accident. You're going to go wash at the well and get that blood off. When Father asks about the wound, I nicked your head in training this morning because you made a mistake."_

He just shook his head. The next question was one she and Jacob had prepared for. "Did you hurt Jacob at training recently?"

 _Jacob immediately became petulant. "Why does it have to be me who made a mistake?" She started to twist around with a venomous look and he raised his hands in surrender. "Right, sorry, got it. It was my mistake." He started to strip and she turned away. It was a body that she had known well as a young child, but now, much to her shame, it made a flush start to creep up her face. She tossed him a blanket to put over his shoulders._

"I did", she replied easily, "yesterday morning. He leaned too far into a punch and I caught him right over his eye. It bled a ridiculous amount and he whined about it ruining his favourite coat for at least a quarter of an hour."

 _When she got back from her ride, he was sitting on the floor in her room, wrapped in her blanket and staring into space. He jumped as she opened the door, but relaxed when he saw her satisfied smile. "It's all done", she said, smartly pulling off her gloves and jacket. "Are you clean?"_

"Why was your blade even out?" her father asked.

 _She knelt before him and ran her hands through his hair, checking to make sure that he had cleaned out all of the blood. She quickly unwrapped the bandages, already soaked through, and replaced them with clean ones. He sat patiently through her ministrations, looking sleepy and oddly contented._

"I see no sense in practicing if you don't do it properly, and I didn't think he'd be so careless as to get hurt" she replied, hoping he would accept that. "What is this all about?"

" _All right", she finally said, "I think you can go to bed now." She stood smoothly and he stumbled to his feet, getting a little tangled in the blanket. He was still stripped down to his pants, she noticed, trying not to notice too much._

There was a short pause, and the tension suddenly leached out of her father, leaving him looking tired and worn out once more. "I'm sure Jacob will tell you." He shifted back towards the desk and reached for a clean sheet of paper, saying, "I need to write a letter to the Council."

 _He made it to the door before he remembered her blanket. He wandered back and held it out to her, which made it much more difficult not to notice that he was in his pants. She kept her gaze determinedly on his face as she accepted the blanket, aware that he moved his hand to her arm instead of dropping it._

Evie understood that to be a dismissal and she stood to leave.

" _Thanks for cleaning up after me," he mumbled, looking uncomfortable. She rolled her eyes. "It won't be the last time, I'm sure." There was almost no warning when Jacob leaned in suddenly, his lips a hair's breadth away from hers. Shock froze her onto the spot and she closed her eyes instinctively. When she opened them moments later, heart in her throat and anticipation coursing through her veins, he was gone._

As she reached the door, her father called after her, "remember, Evie, don't let your feelings compromise what it means to be an Assassin. The Council is necessary."

 _When she got back into bed, the blanket smelled like him._

"Of course," she responded. "I won't."

 _It was wrong, of course, but it was worth it._

* * *

 **Notes:**

Fic title is the title of a poem that is a part of the medieval collection _Carmina Burena_. It was set to music by Carl Orff in 1935 and 1936 (it's part of the same collection as the much more famous 'O Fortuna').

English translation:

 _'In the wavering balance of my feelings_  
 _set against each other_  
 _lascivious love and modesty._  
 _But I choose what I see,_  
 _and submit my neck to the yoke;_  
 _I yield to the sweet yoke.'_


	2. Mourning

As news of the mysterious and violent death of Sir Edward Maule spread and rocked their small community, Jacob noticed that their Father started to keep a much closer eye on both Evie and himself. There was no proof of anything, of course, but Jacob had to admit that their father's instincts were second to none.

Thankfully, he seemed content to mostly watch Evie; this meant that things quickly returned to much the same as they had been before. Jacob kept to himself and left the house each evening, continuing his exploration of all the local drinking and gambling dens. Evie continued her nightly research and training at home.

On the whole, he stayed away from her and she stayed away from him.

They still had missions together, of course. In those situations it was possible to focus on the work and ignore the lingering awkwardness. They even managed to laugh together and rib each other on the way home from a successful job. All the same, they always kept an arm's length apart.

Of course, if they had been determined, they could've found time to be alone. They were two highly trained young Assassins and Ethan Frye was just one man. But if Jacob was honest, he wasn't sure that he wanted to talk about it. The "Incident", as he thought of it in his head, had happened because he was exhausted, cold, had lost a lot of blood, and Evie had been kind and smelled good. He had leaned in without thinking about it.

The urge had existed in the edge of his mind for a long time. It was wrong, of course. But then, so was killing people. The desire made it almost impossible to be with other women; he had tried, but he always ended up picking girls who looked like Evie, who reminded him of Evie, who could have been Evie if he closed his eyes. But then they would say murmur his name or giggle or sigh and the illusion would shatter, and he would inevitably end up stammering something and pushing them away. It felt wrong that they reminded him of her. It also felt wrong that they weren't her. It was fucked up, and there didn't seem to be a lot he could do about it.

He had no way of knowing what Evie thought about the Incident. He had left as fast as possible once he had realized what he'd nearly done, panic gripping his throat like a vice. She hadn't immediately beat him into a pulp, and this was theoretically a good sign. When they met over breakfast the next day, she had treated him like nothing had happened.

Thinking about it too hard gave him an unfamiliar strained headache. It didn't seem worth the effort.

In the weeks following the incident, he managed to track down Polly for a visit. She took his hand in hers, grinning and showing that there were now a few extra teeth missing. "Little Lizzie told me that she had an 'andsome young man ask 'er about that devil, and that less than 6 hours later, the bastard were dead." She patted his hand contentedly with a bit of her old twinkle in her eye. "She seemed to think that this young man were responsible, but I told 'er, nonsense, girl. Take those thoughts out of your silly head, and no need to mention it to anyone but Polly. Obviously, it were just your run-o'-the-mill avenging angel."

"Obviously," he agreed with a grin, leaving some money on the bedside table to pay for food and tinctures to ease her pain. Her fading bruises still made Jacob's pulse begin to pound furiously in his ears, but he would close his eyes and think of Maule writhing on the carpet, choking on his own blood. It helped.

The uneasy truce in the Frye household stretched on from weeks to months, the whole family settling into pretending that the entire situation had never happened. The tenuous return to routine might have continued on indefinitely, had Jacob not come home one day to find Evie perched on the stairs, her head in her hands.

She didn't look up as he approached her slowly, not wanting to surprise her. It was dangerous to surprise Evie. "Is everything all right?" he asked, tentatively.

"Father has a fever," she responded, her voice flat. "He's been poorly all week, but he wouldn't rest and now he can't leave his bed."

Jacob shifted awkwardly. He hadn't been around enough to notice anything. "Have you called a physician?"

"Doctor Williams is upstairs with him now," she said. "Father was raving and wouldn't agree to see him at first. I had to give him some laudanum to make him sleep before Doctor Williams could look at him properly. I left to give them some privacy."

"Raving? Is it- do you think it's serious?"

Evie didn't respond, but the look on her face was all the answer he needed.

* * *

Their father's condition continued to worsen. Doctor Williams was grave but unable to offer much help beyond reminding Evie that Ethan would need to get lots of fresh air, continue to drink plenty of water, and have his sheets changed regularly and cleaned in boiling water. The doctor also left behind some more laudanum to help with sleep.

She immediately dragged a pallet into their father's bedroom, unwilling to leave his side. She slept in short bursts, spending the rest of her time trying to convince him to drink water and holding a cloth against his forehead and neck. When he woke, he would cry and call her Cecily, mistaking her for the mother that she apparently resembled. She wouldn't know if she did or not, because he never spoke about their mother.

She was determined not to cry, but the tears almost started when Jacob poked his head into the room on the second evening and offered to switch places with her. She wanted to scream at him to go out as usual, to ignore them the way he always did. Jacob should be busy destroying things and being unreasonably pleased with himself about it, not playing nursemaid to a sick old man.

The fact that he would consider it made it impossible to ignore the seriousness of the situation.

"You'll fetch me if anything changes?" she asked wearily.

"I promise," he said.

She nodded and took a pile of sheets to boil in the kitchen.

They drifted through this nightmarish routine until she lost track of the days. Her hours were spent absently trying to convince Father to eat some food, washing load after load of laundry, taking out the chamber pot and burying its contents away from any sources of water, as per Doctor Williams' suggestion. The house was largely silent until Ethan would start to rave again, when she and Jacob would both drop what they were doing and rush to him.

She tried to calm him when it happened, tried to remind him where he was and who they were. Jacob stood behind her and watched silently, shifting from foot to foot, forgotten and awkward and helpless.

It felt impossible to go anywhere else, but the long stretches of emptiness were excruciatingly boring. Jacob suggested that they start training to pass the time, and they began sparring together regularly for the first time in years. He was much stronger than she remembered, able to barely flinch when he blocked one of her blows.

After a particularly frustrating session one afternoon, he looked at her triumphantly. "You know, I wondered initially, but now I'm sure - you've gotten weaker, dear sister".

"I have done no such thi- oh, shut up," she snapped at his gleeful face, rubbing her wrist where he'd gripped it. "Strength is not everything, _dear_ brother, and you'd do well to remember that."

His grin stretched from ear to ear. "That's something that only weak people sa-"

Her foot made solid contact with his chin and his head snapped backwards, knocking him off his feet and squarely onto his back.

He was still on the ground for so long that she was about to go check on him when she heard him quietly mumble, "well, I deserved that."

A giggle bubbled up in her chest. Everything had been so tense and anxious; it felt inappropriate to take any pleasure in life when Father was lying upstairs in bed, and yet, it felt good to laugh. It felt so good that she suddenly found herself unable to stop, laughing and laughing until her hands were on her knees and she was short of breath, which made her start to hiccough. This made Jacob, still on the floor, start laughing as well, until the two of them were a wheezing mess.

"Wounded innocent over here, could use a little help," Jacob's voice floated up when they both finally paused for breath. "These are dangerous times we live in, you know, when a man can be attacked without any provocation. This is a moral crisis, Evie, take it seriously."

She pulled him up to his feet. "No provocation?" she said with a smile.

"I heard a man was attacked only a short way away," he replied, face very solemn. "Murdered in his study by some rogue, imagine!"

"That's rather dark, Jacob," she responded, and he chuckled as they both crouched into position for the next round.

The training sessions helped more than she could have guessed. Besting Jacob's new strength meant relying on her speed and ability to guess his next movements, and she appreciated the focus that this required. It cleared her mind. Most of all, it left her exhausted enough that she could finally fall into a dreamless sleep.

She also found herself growing more willing to trust Jacob. She initially hovered over him constantly, unable to truly believe that he would take good care of their father instead of disappearing somewhere. But as the days passed, between the exhaustion and Jacob's unusually sober and helpful behaviour, she found herself becoming more and more willing to let him be. It was nice to retreat to the study where the room smelled like her father in happier days, idly working through their Latin letters, feeling the sunshine on her skin and pretending that it was all just a horrible dream.

One night, Jacob woke her from a restless slumber. He had found red spots on their father's chest while trying to wash him. They fetched Doctor Williams again, who slowly took in the rash and the distended stomach, the glazed eyes and laboured breathing, the fever and the stench that hung in the air.

"I would fetch a priest," he suggested gently.

After the doctor left, Evie settled in the chair next to the bed, gently taking her father's hand in her own. Jacob took the opposite side. Both of them knew not to bother with the priest.

Jacob spoke softly, his voice compassionate. "I'm sorry, Evie," he murmured. He reached across the narrow bed, taking her free hand, the three of them forming a triangle.

She couldn't find the words in her to respond, so she nodded tightly.

They both settled in for a silent vigil, neither of them willing to leave the stubborn man who had trained them and taught them, infuriated them and loved them, broken them and moulded them back together. Their father, for better, for worse.

When Ethan Frye finally stopped breathing later that night, both of his children were slumped over and asleep next to him, their hands tightly holding his and each other's.

* * *

At Evie's instruction, Jacob went to go talk to a gravedigger about a funeral.

When Jacob finally found the man, it was hard to say who was in a fouler mood. The gravedigger eyed him up and down, clearly thinking about the family's strange reputation. "I don't see why it's not in a church, and if there's something shady about this, I don't want nothin' to do with tha-"

Jacob was exhausted beyond belief. He wasn't particularly patient to begin with, and the last week had been hell. Looking at the weedy little man, he felt something snap. Reaching forward over the desk, he grabbed the gravedigger by the lapels and lifted him bodily out of his chair and into the air. "Are you sure?" he heard himself snarl.

"No sir, no church is fine, any place is good! Just tell me where, I'll be there, any time," the man squeaked.

When Jacob returned, he found that Evie had hung some black material on their door. The greater shock was when he got to the kitchen and found her in a black dress, awkwardly trying to climb onto a chair around the massive hoop of crepe fabric.

He squinted, pushing her aside to climb up and get the cinnamon for her. "That's oddly ladylike for you," he said, passing the spice down.

"Grandmother had it made for me when grandfather passed away," she said quietly, moving to the bowl where she was mixing ingredients together. "It's a bit tight in the shoulders now, but it will do."

"Do for what?" he said, confused.

"There will be guests," she said, shooting him that particular look that she saved for when he didn't know something that was apparently self-evident to her. It had been absent while they had been looking after Father, but now that he was gone, it was apparently back. "A viewing. Of Father. I put his favourite coat on, but I left the blankets on so they won't see the rest. Some of the Council will probably come when they hear the news. We'll be expected to serve some food; I'm trying to put something together."

"We're bothering with all of _that?_ Full mourning?"

"Not for the whole year, I can't imagine," she said, unhappily tugging at the dress. "But we'll do a viewing, Father would've wanted it." He was still gawping. "Just go and find something black to wear," she muttered.

It seemed like a bad idea to argue.

The next few days were a blur. People that he had never seen in his life turned out in force to honour Ethan Frye. The process was exhausting. He and Evie would inevitably end their evening falling asleep slumped in the chairs in front of the fire, the effort of going all the way to bed seeming like too much work.

He ended up running away to the pub on the third afternoon, unable to tolerate it any longer. Being responsible was an unreasonable amount of work. Caring for Father had been one thing, of course, he hardly could have left that to Evie and been able to look her in the eye afterwards. But now that he was gone, the idea of simpering for the Council for even one more minute made him want to punch someone.

Sitting at the counter with his beer, alone and unoccupied for the first time in days, he was able to think about the last week. It was so typical that even in his father's delusional ravings all of the focus had been on Evie, he thought. In death as in life. He pushed down the bitter feeling that curled in his throat; the man was dead. It wasn't worth the effort of being annoyed.

Six drinks and an hour of rousing pub songs later, he slunk back home and crept in the door. Evie was slumped in front of the fire again. He waited for her to turn around and rip into him, but she merely grunted in his direction. That was strange. She had dark circles under her eyes, he noticed, and she looked frailer than usual.

"Evie," he started slowly, "when was the last time you ate?"

"What?" she looked at him blankly. "I don't know, why?"

"I can't believe I have to be the more responsible one," he said, "but come on, up," he pulled her out of the chair. "Go up to bed and I'll put something together for you to eat."

"You can't cook," she mumbled. "Everything you make tastes like burnt"

"Rude. And furthermore, 'burnt' is not a flavour, so there."

She snorted. "It is when you cook."

"Ha-ha", he intoned, "just get up there and get out of that stupid corset, I don't know how you've managed it for days."

"I do hate it," she agreed glumly. She squinted at him. "You reek of beer."

"That's just your exhaustion talking, you're definitely imagining things," he mumbled, making a mental note to chew on some mint from the garden.

When he went up to her room with a small bowl of hot soup- which only smelled a _little_ burnt, he thought to himself with pride- she was sitting in her nightgown at her dressing table, pulling pins out of her hair. He stopped in the doorway and watched, transfixed, as pin after pin freed tresses of hair, until she pulled the braids apart and the waves fell all the way down her back. He had forgotten how long it was.

She wrinkled her nose and turned to him. "That's going to taste burnt, isn't it?"

"Only a little," he replied. "All right, maybe a lot, but you have to eat something. You haven't yelled at me for going out, and that means something is very amiss."

"I will yell at you at my soonest convenience", she promised gravely, accepting the soup and making a face as she took a mouthful.

He waited until most of it was gone before asking her quietly, "how long has it been since you've slept?"

"I'm sleeping just fine, thank you," she replied tartly, but when he crossed his arms and frowned, she sighed. "Oh very _well_ , it's been a while. I don't think I've slept more than a few hours at a time since he died."

He felt a twist of guilt. He hadn't noticed, again. He really had to start paying better attention.

She set the bowl down and looked away. "I keep thinking he'll call for me in the night."

The silence swelled to fill the space, all of the unspoken grief suffocating the air out of the room. He suddenly remembered that although his own relationship with Father had been a complicated one, full of regrets and now a very small guilty sense of relief that the man was gone, Evie had worshiped him- she had wanted nothing more than to make their father proud and to feel that approval, and now she would never feel it again.

"Right then," he said, breaking the heavy silence, "you go to bed, and I'll sit next to you, and if anyone calls in the night I'll get you up."

She stared at him. "Jacob, no one is going to call."

"So you'll be able to sleep," he said, perching on the side of her bed and shrugging off his boots. "Come on, into bed, lights out."

"Jacob-"

"Just do it," he snapped, a bit more impatiently than he meant to. It had been a long day for him as well, and for just once in her life, he wanted her to listen to him.

Seemingly shocked into obedience, she blew out the lamp and crawled into bed. He sat on top of the covers, leaning back against the headboard, suddenly and uneasily aware that this may not have been a very good idea. He shifted uncomfortably and cursed his act-first-think-later strategy. Not for the first time, he thought ruefully.

"Jacob?" Her voice was soft.

He grunted.

"Thank you," she said quietly. And suddenly, despite the knowledge that he would have to sit there like an idiot and not touch her, despite the sinking feeling that her breath on his arm was going to drive him to distraction all night, despite the prospect of an uncomfortable and sleepless evening, there was nowhere in the world that he would rather be.

* * *

The funeral was small. It was a damp day but the skies stayed clear, the crispness of the air filling Evie's lungs as they walked from the house. She tried to explain the cramped feeling in her shoulders and chest away with the strain of her dress; no matter how deeply she inhaled, it never felt like enough.

Jacob had managed to find a shabby black waistcoat and trousers in the attic. It felt strange to see his face so solemn, and she had hardly recognized him when he emerged from his room clean-shaven. She thought of the warm feel of his body next to her in the bed, the soft smell of- of, well, of _Jacob_ , of gunpowder and sweat and grass, with a bit of mint that he had obviously chewed to try and cover the beer. She vaguely considered trying to stay awake and enjoy it, but instead she had drifted off to sleep almost immediately, only waking when the sun was peeking through her curtains.

 _You hoped he would be under the sheets with you last night, not over_ , a small voice whispered in her head, and she shook herself to push the thought away. Now was not the time, nor would it ever be.

They buried Ethan Frye in a small plot not far from the house, with only herself, Jacob, and the gravedigger present. The gravedigger and Jacob lowered the coffin into the ground while she looked on, resentful that the dress prevented her from helping, relieved that she would be out of it tomorrow.

A simple headstone marked their father's name and the years he had lived. Once the dirt was a smooth mound, she set down a small bouquet of white flowers. They returned to the house and she removed all signs that they were accepting visitors.

With that, it was over, and Father was gone.

* * *

 **Notes:**

Given that Evie cavorts around London in trousers for the whole game, I debated going with a dress for mourning. But Victorians were particular about their rituals, and I had a feeling that Ethan Frye was a slightly stricter man of his time than his children, given on the way that he's discussed in the game.


	3. Mission

"Once you have access to the main gardens, you can avoid the guards by climbing up this wing here- enter by this balcony door, and then- Jacob, are you listening?"

Jacob was not listening. He was sitting next to the window in their Father's old study and sharpening his hidden blade, carefully working it to a razor's edge. He looked up into George's exasperated face, looming over Father's old desk.

"Sorry, no," he replied cheerfully.

"How do you plan to complete the mission?" George's voice was barely covering his frustration. It wasn't that Jacob disliked the man. They had worked together for years, and he knew that George and Father had been close. But Jacob couldn't help but feel that George severely lacked imagination, just as Father had.

"Evie will tell me, won't you, Evie." He turned to her, sitting stiffly on the other side of the room, with what he hoped was a winning grin.

The look that Evie shot back could have frosted the sun. "Ignore him, George, he has the attention span of an oyster. What after the balcony door?"

They returned to pouring over the map and Jacob went back to ignoring them. Just as the blade started to gleam to his satisfaction, George stood and rolled up the charts, passing them to Evie. "Report to me tomorrow when it's done, I'll await your news."

"Of course," Evie said, standing with him. Jacob pointedly stayed in his seat.

She narrowed her eyes at him as the door clicked behind George. "Honestly, is there a reason why you have to be so rude?"

"You _will_ go over the plans again even if I was listening to them the first time," he said defensively. "And you'll do a better job than he did."

She turned away, refusing to acknowledge his words, but the slight relaxation of her shoulders told Jacob that she liked the compliment as clearly as if she had said so aloud.

He gave his blade a few practice twists. "Honestly, I don't know why the council thinks we even need a handler. He could just give us the mission and leave, he doesn't have to sit and go through every step like we don't know what we're doing. He's done missions with us, he knows that we can manage ourselves." He frowned at her. "They don't trust us."

"Would you?" she replied, carefully sliding the charts into a shelf.

"Of course I would, we're the best there is. We shouldn't even be here, we should be off in London, striking at the heart of the Templars, not picking off fringe members that don't even matter one by one."

She rubbed her forehead. "I know, but that's the Council's decision."

"They can all go to hell," Jacob mumbled, the familiar rumble of frustration creeping into his voice.

"Yes, well, I'm going to go sleep now if there's a mission tonight," Evie replied, sidestepping the issue. "This is our first real target since- well, you know- and I'm sick of reconnaissance missions. It has to go well."

"It will," he said confidently. "Do you want me to come and sit with you?"

The air suddenly grew thick with Evie's embarrassment. It had been several weeks since Father had died, and every night, he had gone in and sat on the bed while she fell asleep. He'd actually become quite the expert at sleeping while propped up. But having it happen and talking about it were two separate things. They had a routine at night that neither of them discussed, but this was different.

"No, I- I'll be perfectly all right," she said, a flush creeping up her cheeks.

He frowned. Why was _she_ embarrassed? Probably because she thought it made her look weak, he thought, with a twinge of a regret. As frustrating as the evenings were, he didn't want to give them up in exchange for nothing.

"Evie-" he started, but she was already practically fleeing the room.

"See you this evening," she said frantically, snapping the door shut behind her, leaving him to sit in confused silence.

* * *

It had been stupid to react that way, Evie knew. What he suggested by itself wasn't inappropriate, and she shouldn't be treating it as such. He was just being considerate and kind, which was _strange_ for Jacob, but not inappropriate.

But standing there in Father's old study, almost feeling his presence behind her- she hadn't been thinking clearly. In fact, Father would have been horrified if he had been able to see what she was thinking.

She splashed water from her basin onto her face and looked into the mirror, trying to clear her head. _He's my brother_ , she repeated, _he's my brother_.

It turned out that she needn't have bothered to try and sleep. Confused and full of guilt, she tossed and turned until it was time to leave, irritably rising as the clock struck ten.

She left the house, gauntlet and hood securely in place, and found Jacob already standing out front with two horses.

He held the reins out to her. "Ready?"

"Of course," she replied, swinging up into the saddle.

They reached the manor about an hour later, leaving the horses tied in the forest to make less noise. At the garden wall, Evie pulled out the maps.

He grinned. "See, I knew you'd go over them again."

"I have to because you don't know the plan," she snapped. "Look, he knows that we're after him, so he's increased his guard. Rotations are every two hours. We take out the two guards here," she pointed at the map, "and here, right after midnight. Then we have two hours to get in and out before someone finds them and raises the alarm."

"Good plan."

"It's not done! We go up the side of the house here, in through the balcony. You keep watch on the servant's staircase for more guards, and I go up that way and take care of the target while he sleeps."

"Guard duty?" Jacob said indignantly. "Why do I get-"

"Because you're just as likely to get distracted and start smashing things or do whatever it is you always do that throws this all off course. Once I'm finished, I'll signal you up, we go out the window, leave the way we came. Clear?" She rolled up the maps and held a match to them, watching them go up in flames. No loose ends.

"Clear," he grumbled, still sulking. Now this was the familiar Jacob, she thought, not the one that hovered over her like a friendly guard dog at night.

They climbed over the garden wall and silently scrambled into the higher branches of some trees, waiting for the guards to reach their post.

Evie peered out over the area, closing her eyes and letting the world wash in grey when she opened them. Potential threats were clearly visible to her Sight- 8, 10, 12 guards outside. But none of them should be able to see this section of the garden.

She signalled to Jacob as the guards arrived and they both silently dropped out of the trees, the two men hitting the ground before they were even aware of the blades in their necks.

She crept through the garden and up the side of the building with Jacob close behind, and she picked the lock while he kept watch. He took position at the servant's stairs, only grumbling a little bit under his breath. So far, so good, she thought, picking the lock to the master bedroom.

The target was alone, just like George said he would be. She covered his mouth and efficiently slid her blade into his throat, the man barely gasping a sound before dying. She pulled out a handkerchief and dipped it in his blood, tucking it back away into her coat. It was satisfying to do a job properly and be able to just focus on what was on hand, no thoughts about Father or Jacob cluttering up her head. Now, to just get Jacob-

A bell started to clang in the distance. That wasn't right.

Another one started, and then another, the clamouring noise getting louder. _Shit_ -

"New plan!" Jacob yelled, bursting through the door. He grabbed her arm and dragged her towards the window, "come on, out, quick-"

"What the _hell_ ," she hissed, swinging her legs out and grabbing hold of the window ledge.

"No time to explain", he stage-whispered merrily as two armed men charged into the room and roared with anger as they saw the corpse in the bed. "Roof, up, come on."

A bullet whizzed by her ear and shattered a window. They scrambled to the roof and Jacob took off at a sprint down the length of the house, yelling, "keep up!"

She gritted her teeth and ran after him, aware of the yelling voices down below. When Jacob leapt off the edge of the roof, she instinctively followed, barely registering the hay stack below before her feet left the tiles.

She landed with a soft crunch and started to rise when his arm stayed her. "Quiet," he whispered, "just a moment." A few guards ran by and then he lifted his arm and jumped out, leaving her to follow behind again.

"Where are we going?" she said, and he whispered back, "we're improvising." Evie groaned inwardly, feeling an impending disaster; improvising was not exactly Jacob's strong suit. If only they had time to stop and _think_ , she could maybe come up with a plan.

But there was no time for thinking. Moments later, they rounded a corner and were standing at stable doors. "Pick this, would you?" He said, gesturing to the lock.

"Jacob," she snapped, "we haven't got _time_ -"

"Evie, I'd love to have this chat, but we're kind of in a hurry," he said, swiftly throwing a knife and burying it into the forehead of a guard that came around the corner. "If you don't mind?"

I'm going to kill him, she thought, I really am. She swore and went to work on the lock until it clicked. When she turned around, Jacob was pulling the garden gates wide open. He sprinted past her to the stables and grabbed two of the horses, cutting them loose and giving them a solid rap on the rump. They took off at a gallop towards the gates, disappearing into the darkness.

She stared. "What on earth-"

"Come on," he gestured to her, and then quickly grabbed an enormous trunk. He hefted it onto the back of the first carriage, clipping it in place. Yanking it open, he gestured into it.

She gaped at him. "You can't be serious."

Voices came from outside the carriage house, shouting and incoherent. Jacob scrambled into the trunk and pulled her in on top of him, quickly closing the lid and plunging them into darkness. They lay there, tense and still, as the guards argued.

"I heard the horses go, look, two are missing- we've got to chase them down,"

"Grab some men, quickly!"

The trunk jostled slightly as men climbed into the carriage. There was a crack and it started to move, bumping along. The guards were muttering darkly amongst themselves, wondering what would happen now that their master was dead, wondering about consequences from London now that another Templar had been assassinated.

Evie wasn't listening to any of it. It was excellent knowledge, good information to report back to the Council, but all she could think of was being so tightly wedged against Jacob, her face tucked into his neck, her arms against his chest, her knees bumping against the bottom of the trunk as he was splayed underneath her. It was awkward and uncomfortable, the muscles in her legs were starting to cramp, and she didn't mind in the slightest.

His heart was beating almost as fast as her own, his breathing as strained. Her lips were barely a breath away from his neck, it would be so easy to just lean a little closer and press them to his skin. It was something she had barely let herself imagine, only in some of her darkest fantasies, but it could be so simple here. She slid her hands up to his shoulders almost without intending to, nearly inwardly purring at being able to touch him so directly, vaguely sensing that he had put his arms on her waist, that his grip was tightening and his face turning towards hers-

"There's one of the horses!" One of the men shouted, making both of them still. There was a scuffle and the carriage pulled to a stop.

"No rider," another yelled, seemingly from a short distance. "they must have kept going on foot."

"Split up," the first voice commanded, and the carriage jostled again, this time from dismounting guards. "I'll keep going to look for the other horse, this might be a ploy to distract us."

Evie used her Sight and saw the guards splintering off into different directions.

The carriage, now considerably lighter, broke into a light roll once more.

Jacob's voice was oddly strained when he spoke up. "Ready?" He whispered.

She nodded, knowing he could feel the movement against his neck, and gently pushed upwards at the lid of the trunk.

She dove out and rolled on the ground, hearing a soft thump as he jumped out behind her. They quickly darted into the darker thicket of the woods, stretching cramped muscles and attempting to swiftly put some distance between them and their pursuers.

* * *

It took almost three hours to find their horses again. It turned out that their little carriage ride had taken them farther than Jacob expected, so it was a long walk back.

They walked in silence; at one point, he almost considered cracking a joke, but then they came across a guard searching the woods. Jacob had barely twisted towards the man before Evie quickly jabbed two punches into the guard's stomach, savagely plunging her knife into the back of his neck as he bent over in pain.

He let out an admiring whistle. "That was vicious."

" _What_ ," she snarled.

He decided to wait until she was ready to talk.

They were almost all the way home when she finally spoke. "What raised the alarm?"

He shot her a sideways look. "Kiddie out of bed after hours, clearly looking for Mum or Dad. Saw me and scarpered before I could do anything. What was I supposed to do, kill him?"

There was a pause. "No, of course not," she finally said.

"Might've killed the parent he was looking for, anyway," he added lightly, his stomach twisting a little at the thought.

"Yes," she agreed quietly.

It was part of the territory, but he wasn't sure if he would ever get used to it. Templars had families, of course, and were loved by their children like everyone else. But this was a war, and every war would have casualties. He gave himself a shake and banished the image of the child, crying over a lost father, from his head.

They were silent again for the rest of the ride.

His body was beginning to ache by the time they finally made it back to the Frye family home. He staggered to his room and hung his hat on the door, shrugging out of his jacket and tugging the gauntlet off.

He took a swig of brandy from the bottle on his desk and sat on the edge of his bed, trying to stretch his sore muscles and ease the stiffness of tomorrow morning. He heard footsteps at the door and raised his eyes to see Evie, eyes curiously alight. She was in her nightdress, a sight that he was finally getting used to, able to see her with her hair loose and in a state of relative undress without immediately wanting to cover his eyes like a schoolboy.

"What should we tell George?" she asked.

He shrugged and went back to loosening his muscles. "That we got to the target? It's the truth."

"It's not quite the whole truth."

"Does it matter?" he responded. "We've kept secrets before."

She stepped slowly towards him and touched her thumb to the scar running through his eyebrow, tracing its arc. Maule's blind blow had left a permanent mark. "That's true," she said quietly. She dropped her hand. "That was the first time I ever lied to him."

He watched her shrink inwardly at the thought and frowned. "That's not quite true- there were the lemons."

She didn't understand. "The lemons?"

"Remember, when we were eight, he brought home those lemons and we thought they would be sweet like oranges?"

Recognition sparked in her face. "And we stole them all and hid them in our treehouse- and told him that we had no idea where they went."

"But then we had a chance to try them," he prompted.

"And they were foul, so sour! So we threw them all down the well."

He grinned. "And then he pulled them out when he was drawing water, and he was so furious, it only could have been us."

A small smile started on her face. "But we swore it wasn't, even when he held us upside down. Neither of us wanted to rat out the other."

"See?" he spread his arms. " _That_ was the first lie, obviously."

That seemed to drain the energy out of her, which was not quite the effect he'd been going for.

"I'm going to sleep. Goodnight," she said, turning and leaving.

Jacob hesitated for a moment, not sure if he was meant to follow her. He wanted to. Oh, what the hell, he thought to himself, taking another swig of brandy for courage and quickly changing into his nightshirt before padding across the hall to her room.

The room was already dark when he pushed open the door. He tried to move quietly, only letting out a short string of hissed curses when he stubbed his toe on a chair.

He propped himself up in his usual spot when he finally made it to the bed, settling against the headboard. She had left room for him, he noticed.

He was almost asleep when her voice, deceptively casual, drifted through the darkness. "It's cold, you can get under the blanket if you want."

It was not cold out. In fact, it was almost the opposite. If they were both under the blanket, it would probably be too warm. He looked in her direction, trying to see her expression, but she was facing the other way. Had he imagined it? "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she responded quietly. Not imagined, then.

It was like standing on the edge of a precipice. He wanted to crawl in, be closer to her, maybe even touch her. But this was different from his rash decisions before, when things had happened in the spur of the moment. It was different from his near-kiss, from the first night of sitting with her while she slept, from doing his absolute best to stay calm while she was pressed against him in the trunk, her breathing raising gooseflesh on his neck. It was an invitation, but more importantly, it was from her.

As if he'd ever stepped back from a precipice before.

He stood up and pulled the covers back, sliding between the sheets. He took a deep breath and tried to close his eyes and sleep. His breath hitched a little when she slid closer to him, his arm along her back. She was his sister. _Sister_.

He took another deep breath and tried to count backwards from one hundred in threes. _Sister_. One hundred, ninety-seven, ninety-four. She let out a small sigh and his mind went blank, feeling the lips against his neck again. He gritted his teeth. _Sister, sister, sister_. Ninety-one, eighty-eight, eighty-five…

It was going to be another long night.


	4. Kiss

Evie had barely been in bed for a few hours when she was back up again, sitting at the window, trying to sort her thoughts. Her mind was too crowded for sleep.

Not saying anything to George would certainly be the simplest solution in regards to the mission, she thought, running the events of last night through her head again. Confessing to the cockup would mean potentially being relegated to reconnaissance work on minor members of the Templar order again, and that was the last thing she wanted.

Those jobs were boring, long, and kept her from her research.

Not that her research had been making much progress lately. Every time she sat in the study and tried to look over the notes, she had to work past the lump in her throat that emerged at the sight of her father's handwriting.

She cast a look at Jacob. He was still asleep, arms thrown wide open and on his back, his hair sticking up in every direction. His mouth was open and he would occasionally let out a rasping snore. He looked ridiculous. This made her feel a surge of affection for him, though she couldn't exactly explain why.

It had probably been a mistake to invite him under the covers, but the urge to feel him physically close had been overwhelming. When she woke up, she found that she had curled completely against his shoulder. It was part of the reason why she had gotten up so quickly and so early, relieved that he was still asleep.

She sighed and rubbed her face. Everything had been much simpler before.

That was precisely the problem: although neither of them were saying it out loud, and neither were willing to completely take the first step, she felt like they were edging closer and closer to a point where things couldn't be undone. Jacob's strategy had clearly been to lurch from impulse to impulse. She would catch him watching her with a sort of desperate hunger when he thought she wasn't looking, but once they had made eye contact, there would be a flash of fear and he would pretend to have been doing something else all along.

Upon reflection, she had realized that this had to be the reason why he had started avoiding her. At least that's one mystery solved, she thought ruefully.

She pulled her coat over her nightdress, moving downstairs and into the back garden. The ground was wet, but she didn't mind. Her breath created little clouds in the crisp air, and she watched the sun peek through the trees. It would be a beautiful summer day.

Was he even aware of where this was going? He knew her better than anyone, but this was also Jacob. Quick to pick up on some things, abominably slow on others.

Was she aware of where this was going?

She had lost track of time when she heard the kitchen door open and Jacob's voice call out.

"There you are; I wasn't sure if you'd left for somewhere. I've made breakfast, do you want some?"

She closed her eyes. "Is it burnt toast or burnt eggs?"

She could see his mock-outrage even though she didn't turn around. "I am a master assassin, a gambler of repute throughout the county, and the coveted prize of _all_ of the girls in the village. Cooking is just one of my many incredible skills. So no, it is not burnt eggs or burnt toast."

She waited.

He finally huffed, too impatient to wait for her retort. "It's burnt porridge. Do you want it or not?"

She turned around and looked at him, hair still tousled from sleep, feet bare.

He knew her better than anyone. He understood the loneliness of their calling, and he had always been her closest companion.

"Evie?" he said, the grin slowly fading.

Her brother, yes, but a man too. She was so tired, and particularly tired of fighting this. It had been almost a year since he'd first tried to kiss her, was she willing to wait another year for a chance to come again? Maybe more? Maybe never?

It wasn't like she patiently waited when it came to anything else.

His eyebrows were drawn together. "Are you all right?" The oatmeal spoon hung stupidly in his hand, pointing at the ground.

She closed the space between them in a few quick strides. He was scanning her face, trying to understand what was happening, but he didn't move as she drew closer.

She closed her eyes so she wouldn't see if he was surprised or not when she leaned in to kiss him.

* * *

Jacob had spent his entire life listening to Father natter on about the value of the creed. It was part and parcel of his childhood and of his training. Regardless, he'd never thought it too important.

It wasn't that he thought the rules were necessarily wrong, but rather that he wanted any creed _he_ followed to be one of his own devising.

And in that moment on the threshold of the garden, when Evie's lips pressed to his own and the whole world ground to a stop, he felt three important truths crystallize in his mind: first, the Templars were wrong, and they deserved to be wiped out for their tendencies towards control and tyranny; second, the weak deserved protection and the wronged deserved retribution, and where he was able, it was right that he provided those things; third, he was irrevocably in love with his infuriating, perfectionist, soft-hearted and deadly sister, consequences be damned, and there was no more hiding from it.

She briefly drew back from him, and he almost forgot how to breathe. She was looking at him. Shit. Was he supposed to say something? _Shit_. His mind was blank except for how her lips were so soft-

She started slowly, "was that… I mean, are you…"

It took him two beats to realize that she was worried that he was upset. He let the spoon clatter to the ground and wound his hands through her hair, pulling her in for another kiss by way of response.

It was slow and sweet, and her hair was thick and soft in his fingers. He could've sworn he was dreaming, but a gentle nip on his lower lip reminded him that this was very real, unfolding like some of his wildest fantasies. He responded hungrily, pushing her up against the door frame and pressing against her, stomach full of butterflies and a different feeling entirely beginning to grow in his hips.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his chest, pushing him away.

Her face was red. "Maybe not here?"

"Oh, right," he said groggily. They were standing in the doorway to the garden, he recalled slowly, becoming aware of their surroundings again. Not exactly private. He stepped back with a guilty grin and followed her into the kitchen.

He closed the door behind them and reached for her again, but she ducked under his arms, pushing past him. "Breakfast first, I think."

They sat across from each other at the table, but he was barely able to taste the porridge. This was something he had wanted for _years_ , something he'd denied with all the force of his being. He didn't want to be eating breakfast. He wanted to be almost crushing her in his arms, kissing away a lifetime's worth of pent up frustration.

She interrupted his thoughts. "That was probably wrong."

"Who gives a toss," he muttered.

" _People_ ," and in her heavy emphasis he heard her meaning- _Father_ \- "would be horrified."

He abandoned the porridge and dragged his chair around to be next to her. "Do you care?"

She looked at him and he could see the competition in her head. On the one hand, there was the exemplar Assassin and the person who always Followed The Rules and made The Right Decisions. But on the other, clearer than it had been since they were children, he could see the rule-breaker who stole lemons from the kitchen and longed for a life outside of Crawley almost as much as he did.

The side that wanted to kiss him again, he could see now.

"Look," he finally said, "we won't do anything you don't want to, obviously." He leaned an arm on her shoulder conspiratorially. "But let's be honest; nothing about our life is normal."

Her voice came out as barely a whisper. "I shouldn't want you this much."

"Do we care?" he said again, moving his thumb to trace her lip. He was probably cheating a bit by doing that, but hell, he wanted her too.

Her whisper was almost hoarse now. "No."

He dropped his voice to match her whisper. "Good."

As she shoved her chair backwards and reached for his shoulders, he gripped her waist and lifted her towards him, years of wrestling and climbing practice making the movement almost natural. In moments they were tangled up together again, wrapped in an embrace so tight that the buckles of her coat were digging into his skin. Not that he cared, being a bit more focused on the legs swung over his lap, the arms wrapped tightly around his neck. He moaned into her mouth and ran his hands along her waist, marvelling at how soft she could be, given that he usually only felt a hard elbow or foot when she was wrapped up in armour-

The clock struck eight.

"George!" She gasped, jumping off him. "Meeting! We have to go!" She practically took off at a sprint up the stairs, trying to start braiding her hair as she went.

Jacob stifled a curse and considered throwing a knife into the face of the clock.

* * *

George waited for the twins at the Crawley Headquarters, pacing back in forth in one of the smaller rooms. They were late. This wasn't entirely unusual, as he knew how hard it was to shepherd Jacob anywhere.

These mission debriefs usually went the same way. He would ask how things went, Jacob would brag, Evie would scold, they would bicker, Evie would brag but in a subtler way, Jacob would try to one-up her, they would bicker some more, he would try and intervene, and they would ignore him. He didn't expect anything different this time around.

When they finally arrived, he made a show of sighing and pointing at the clock before getting to the point. "What's your report?"

"We reached the target," Evie replied, "and completed the mission. There was some trouble when one of the guards unexpectedly changed rota and found the men we took out. He called for backup and we had to improvise, but we took care of it. Otherwise everything went according to plan."

George looked at her and tried to parse out why the words sounded rehearsed. It wouldn't be the first time that they had lied, he thought, but usually they were smaller dishonesties. If she was being dishonest at all. He had known them for years, but they could both still be difficult to read.

"You'll be splitting up for your next targets," he said, covering his unease by reaching for some papers stored against the wall. "I'll be accompanying you at least to the start of the mission."

He noticed that both of their mouths twisted slightly at that.

"Jacob, you'll be targeting a corrupt foundry owner, Rupert Ferris."

George passed a map to him and Jacob held it open, taking in the schemata of the factory. "Excellent," he grinned.

"Evie, you'll be targeting Sir David Brewster." He unrolled another map and passed it to her. "We've received intelligence that he's working on a Piece of Eden."

The map partially crumpled in her hands and her face went white. "What?"

"The Templars are experimenting-"

"No," she interrupted, "I mean, why wasn't I informed that they had obtained a Piece of Eden?"

An awkward silence settled over the room.

George started gently, "the Council didn't feel it was necessary to-"

"-That was Father's and my work," she interrupted again, "and he was always kept involved."

Jacob looked to Evie and then back at George before letting out a low whistle. "Oh George," he said, "you've put your foot in it now."

George ignored him. "Evie, they've chosen you for the mission because of your expertise and knowledge. They- we- are aware of your skills, but didn't think it was important to keep you appraised at every stage."

She was clearly wrestling with herself. "I understand," she finally said. She abruptly rolled up her map. "We'll get more details when we meet for the mission?"

George nodded. "This evening, here at seven." He stepped forward and clapped Evie on the shoulder. "You're a good Assassin," he said. "Don't doubt that the Council knows that."

Evie nodded curtly and Jacob snickered again, clearly pleased that someone else was on the receiving end of her irritation.

After they had left, George rubbed his face and sighed. Were they lying about the mission? And if they were, why would they? He knew that they resented being monitored, but Ethan's death had shaken the twins, and he had to make sure that they didn't make any foolish mistakes. He felt he owed that to Ethan- Jacob and Evie were both talented Assassins, but there was still so much that could go wrong.

I'll have to keep a closer eye on them if they're not going to talk to me, he thought, gathering up the papers and putting them away. He knew they wouldn't like it, but what else could he do?

* * *

 _Thunk, thunk, thunk._

The knives hit the centre of the target, a crude carving on the side of a tree outside of the kitchen. Evie took a deep breath and went to collect them, preparing to throw them again, a pattern that she had been repeating for almost an hour.

"Why wouldn't they tell me about a Piece of Eden?" she asked Jacob, the fifth time since they left the Crawley headquarters.

"It's probably not personal," he said, perched on a dead log and cleaning out one of the many family guns.

"How," _thunk_ , "is it not", _thunk_ , "personal?" _thunk_.

Her whole body felt taut with anger. Their research was Father's legacy, how _dare_ they try and keep important knowledge from her?

Jacob gave the barrel a brisk shake. "Why don't you just do it without them?"

"And how, exactly, would I do that?" she snapped, striding over to the tree yet again.

"We could go to London."

She wrenched the knives out. "Don't be ridiculous."

"You're right," he said dryly, "taking your frustration out on a tree is much more sensible."

She shot him a filthy look, aimed, and threw them again. _Thunk, thunk, thunk_. "We're two people, we're young, and far too inexperienced to strike out on our own."

"Good point," he said. "Let's just stay here and be useless instead."

She had to admit that didn't sound too appealing. She yanked the knives out yet again and rested her head against the cool bark of the tree with a sigh. Following the Council and the Creed had always been easy because she'd never been at odds with them before, she realized. Father had always made their decisions seem to reasonable. She wished he was here now. Although, on the other hand, she was glad he hadn't witnessed this morning's events.

She spoke into the the tree. "The Templar hold on London is getting stronger by the day. Taking out Sir David Brewster isn't going to stop them or even really slow them down."

She heard the crunch of Jacob's boots behind her, and he reached around and plucked the knives from her limp hands. "Stop doing this, then, and let's just go to London."

"Why are you always trying to talk me into doing the wrong thing?"

"Hey," he protested, raising his hands, "you were the one who seduced me!"

She shot around, feeling her face turn pink. "I beg your _pardon_?"

He settled back down on his log. "I seem to remember you launching yourself at me this morning, 'oh is this all right, Jacob, please kiss me, Jacob'-"

Her face went from pink to red. "I did _not_ say that," she stammered, toes curling with embarrassment, "Don't be such a prat-"

"Oh _Jacob_ ," he was still trilling in what he clearly thought was her voice, "I know it's _wrong_ but I want you so _badly_ , you're so handsome and tall and _dashing_ , Jacob-"

She launched herself at him in a flying tackle and knocked him off his seat, pinning him to the ground by shoving her knee into his ribs.

"All right, all right," he wheezed, "I may have made up that last part."

She held him down for a moment longer before letting him go, feeling a bit of satisfaction as he propped himself up on his elbows and coughed. He could be _such_ a prat.

"Are you going to kiss me now?" he grinned up at her.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Shame," he sighed. "Look, just think about London, would you?"

She rested back on her palms with a sigh and tried to imagine leaving Crawley. Against the Council's wishes, almost definitely against what Father would have advised.

She looked at Jacob, a lopsided grin on his face, his eyes full of hope.

"I'll think about it," she promised.


	5. Whitechapel

_Polly,_

 _Hope you can find someone to read this to you._

 _Gone to London with E. It's a big place. Starting a gang called the Rooks, going to raise some hell._

 _The beer here is shit. Some good places for bets though, I'll send a bit along if I win anything._

 _If you want something to reach me, send it to Henry Green, Curiosity Shop, Whitechapel, London._

 _Don't miss me too much._

 _J_

* * *

 _Dear George,_

 _I know that you will disapprove, but Jacob and I have decided to focus our efforts in London. Please do not blame Mr. Green, as he believed that you sent us. He has been a tremendous help._

 _We could no longer stand by and watch the Templars extend their reach over London and the world._

 _I plan to continue Father's and my research here. I believe I will be well equipped to do so._

 _If you could arrange for the care of our horses while we are away, I would be most grateful._

 _Yours sincerely, &c.-_

 _Evie Frye_

* * *

One more day, three new Rooks. Jacob had been slowly trying to make some contacts, beginning with the few belligerents and malcontents that Greenie had introduced him to; after all, even if he could gain ground on his own, he would need someone to hold it.

It meant paying for a lot of pints. This was, if nothing else, a sure-fire way to get someone's attention. It also meant doing rather a lot of drinking himself. The good news was that he had a lot of practice in that area.

The main challenge lay in convincing people that he was worth following. He was young, after all, and Starrick and the Templars were deeply entrenched in London. It helped that the Blighters were despised, but they were also feared, and this made people unwilling to join in open revolt. Despite all of this he was confident that things would pick up. The more people he had, he was sure, the more would follow.

He was aware that to anyone else, the scope of what they were attempting would have been daunting. But Jacob was certain that it was really just a matter of doing what he did best – breaking it down into the necessary targets, gathering information, tracking those individuals, and eliminating them.

And in the meantime London was everything he had hoped. It was exciting and busy, full of smoke and dark corners, and there was so much to explore. He and Evie were set up in the back room of Greenie's shop for now, but hopefully they could find their own space soon.

He was on his way back to the shop now, his collar turned up against the wind and a wary eye out. Whitechapel could be a dangerous place at night. He was easily more frightening than anything he might run into, of course, but he didn't want to draw attention to himself.

Not yet.

* * *

The moment Evie saw the library in Mr. Green's shop, all doubts about coming to London had vanished.

The tomes were stacked from floor to ceiling, old and new, priceless and penny dreadfuls. Mr. Green seemed to have an eclectic attitude when it came to collecting, picking up everything and anything that took his fancy. She found that she enjoyed basically anything that he liked, and it made the shelves a pleasure to explore.

The other positive side of London was that Jacob had come alive when they first arrived, showing a drive and focus that even she didn't know he possessed. It was initially unsettling, but now she found that she rather enjoyed it. It enforced her belief that they could succeed at this if they worked together.

She was coming around to the idea of the gang. Maybe even the name. Not, of course, that she planned to tell that to Jacob. He was already cocky enough as of late, no need to add to that. If his head got any bigger he wouldn't be able to fit through doors soon.

Noticing the darkening sky, she had been about to go look for him to learn of any developments on his end. As she was putting on her coat, though, a passage from some 18th century French poetry that she had been perusing popped back into her head. "A mantle of power," the phrase had read, and she had assumed it referred to monarchy. But could it have been the shroud? There were indications that it may have been in Paris at the time.

Quickly striding back to the shelf, she pulled the book out and found the passage. She carried it to the desk, flipped her notes open, and began to write, her intention to leave completely forgotten, losing herself in her work once more.

Father would've liked it here, she thought with a twinge of regret.

* * *

Jacob let himself into the back of the shop and saw that the lamp was still lit. Evie's form was hunched over the desk, eagerly scribbling something down.

"I don't know how you stand the excitement of your life," he said to her, shaking the damp off of his coat.

"Evening," she murmured, not listening.

"Is whatever you're writing so urgent that you couldn't even take off your boots?" He leaned over the desk, eyeing the way she was completely dressed to go out.

She traced some text with her finger, still absorbed. "Sorry- I was about to come find you when I remembered something. Now I think it might be a dead end, though." She pushed her chair back and frowned at her notes. "Looks like it was just a metaphor for monarchy after all."

"God only knows what that's supposed to mean," he sighed, and sat down on the floor next to her. Reaching up to her thigh, he tugged the laces on her boots loose and began to work his way down.

She finally looked away from the desk. "I can do that myself, you know."

"I don't mind," he said mildly. He moved to the second set of laces, fingers working deftly.

When he got to the bottom of both, she obediently stood up and stepped out of them, bare feet on the wooden floor. He set them aside and stood to tug off her coat and hang it up next to his own.

"Who knew you could be so domestic," she said with a grin.

He grinned back. "Maybe I just like taking your clothes off."

She lifted her chin. "You could keep going, if you'd like."

He suddenly felt rooted to the spot. "What?" he said, his voice coming out a little higher than he'd hoped.

That, of course, had been the other nice thing about London. Greenie had given them two pallets to sleep on, and right from the first night they had pushed them together. Once the doors were locked and the lamps were extinguished, they would spend the evening embracing, kissing until they fell asleep. But she had always changed in another room, and he had carefully kept his hands on her waist or above her neck, worried about pushing things too far and having her bolt.

She narrowed her eyes. "Unless you don't want to?"

Oh, please, he thought. As if that were possible.

Reaching forward, he undid her vest and pulled it off, setting it aside. Next, he began to fumble with the clips on her blouse, keeping his hands tense so they wouldn't shake. Moments later, he was frowning. "What- is that- are those bandages? Are you hurt?"

He quickly worked his way down and opened her shirt, revealing a muscled stomach and thick rows of wrapped bandages around her chest.

She laughed. "You didn't think I could move freely as I am, did you? I think normal women use a corset, but that restricts breathing just a little."

"I had honestly never thought about it," he said, bewildered. "Isn't that uncomfortable?"

"A little," she admitted, shrugging the shirt off her shoulders and hanging it on her chair. "Now, my turn."

"You've seen me without my shirt before," he muttered, "that's not the same."

"Hush," she replied, working on his buttons. She tugged the shirt off his shoulders and tossed it away before pulling him in for a kiss.

He pressed in to her, running his hands up her back. He felt the knot on the back of her bandages and he drew back, still fascinated. "When did you start doing this? I don't remember it- and who showed you? Surely not Father-"

"Oh God," she cut in, wrinkling her nose. "No. It was Grandmother, on one of her visits."

"How do you even tie it in the back?" He tugged on the knot.

She shrugged. "Practice."

He hesitated. "Can I take this off?"

She looked at him and he felt his heart in his throat.

"If we turn the lamps off," she agreed.

* * *

She had realized fairly early on that Jacob was trying to let her dictate how far things went.

As he blew out the lamps, it occurred to her that it had always been this way to a certain degree. She had chosen their games when they were children and bossed him around in their studies. He was easygoing where she was more particular.

But that didn't mean that he didn't want things. The hard lump that she could feel against her hips while they were kissing as of late was evidence of that.

Now in the dark, he reached back for her and began to tug at the knot of her bandages.

Two minutes later, she started to giggle. "Do you need some help?"

"This is _difficult_ ," he muttered, "so please do shut up."

She went back to kissing his neck, glad to have her face tucked down where he hopefully couldn't see how nervous she was. Finally, she felt things loosen and the bandages gently unravelled and fell to the ground. The cool evening air was on her skin and she was grateful for the dark.

His hands rested on her back for a moment and then tentatively slid up her waist, finally moving forward to gently massage her breasts. She sighed happily into his neck.

He began to move his hands a little more aggressively and she pulled him in for another kiss, moaning into his mouth. The moan turned into a gasp when he suddenly tightened his fingers on her nipples; she didn't expect that to feel good, nor did she expect the accompanying surge of heat between her legs.

The hard lump in his trousers was back. She ground her hips against him and he groaned, "Jesus, Evie," lowering his head and running his tongue over her hard nipple. Another new sensation, unexpectedly pleasurable. She wound her fingers into his hair, keeping him in place, enjoying the feeling.

He grabbed her waist and they sank to the floor, his hands guiding her onto her back as he kissed up her neck, breathing her name. She slid her nails down his back, enjoying the groan it produced. After so much furtive kissing where he had been hesitantly sliding a hand along the small bits of skin that were exposed when she was dressed, it felt heavenly to openly press herself against him, the roughness of his beard against her cheek, his calloused fingers gaining more confidence by the second.

Suddenly she realized that one of his hands was sliding up her inner thigh-

"All right," she said, pushing against his chest, "that's enough." Jacob tensed for a moment before he obediently raised his hands in surrender and rolled off her, giving her enough space to get up and flee to the cupboard where she normally changed.

Once safely inside, she leaned back against the door and took deep breath after deep breath, trying to find her centre again, waiting for her thumping heart to slow down and the throbbing in her hips to subside.

It wasn't that she didn't want to keep going. She did. The problem was that even now she was struggling with how horrified their father would've been. And undoubtedly their mother, had she lived. Grandmother too. Everyone, in fact.

'Unnatural' would be the kindest thing they could have said. Father would probably have tried to ship one of them off to Scotland.

She found her nightdress on the shelf and pulled it on over her head, slipping her trousers off. They were damp from her arousal, she realized with a surge embarrassment.

She knew that she was going to need to either stop everything or stop prevaricating at some point.

When she poked her head back out, Jacob had relit the lamps and was sitting on his pallet, going through the nightly ritual of cleaning his blade and new gun. She joined him and settled down with her own gauntlet, grateful that they could sit in a companionable silence.

"Listen," she started slowly when they were almost finished. "I have a problem."

"Mm?" he said absently.

"I need a way to watch Lucy Thorne's mail," she continued. "Do you have any ideas?"

He frowned thoughtfully. "I might be able to organize something with one of the Rooks," he finally said.

"Perfect," she replied, setting her polished gauntlet aside and sliding under the itchy cotton coverlet. If she could get a better idea of how close Thorne was to actually acquiring another Piece of Eden, she would be in a much stronger position.

"I need to hear you say it, though," he said.

"Sorry?"

"I need to hear 'Jacob, the Rooks were a brilliant idea and I should never have doubted you. It's also an excellent name for a gang and I wish I had thought of it.' Just like that."

She let out a snort. He never could just let something go.

"What?" he replied, turning the lights down and crawling into the pallet next to her. "I'm completely serious."

"Goodnight, Jacob," she said and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"It's a brilliant name," he muttered into the dark, seemingly at no one in particular.

* * *

Jacob stood in front of the small mirror in the back of Greenie's shop and adjusted his cap lower onto his brow. Maybe this would make him look more serious, he thought, squaring his shoulders and striking a little pose.

Greenie was pacing back and forth behind him. Jacob frowned at him in the mirror. "Relax, Greenie. I don't know why you're so stressed."

Greenie stopped and gave him an even look. "I am nervous for Miss Evie," he said quietly.

No, the hat definitely looked better pushed a little further back, Jacob thought. "Nervous about what?" he asked, shooting the mirror his most serious gang-leader glare.

"This is going to be a brawl," Greenie said. "Kaylock's goons are not the type to show mercy, and he is going to want to hang onto power at any cost."

Jacob smiled into the mirror. There, that looked good. "If you want to worry about someone, worry about anyone who gets in Evie's way." He checked his pocket watch. "Right, almost time. When we come back I'll be running Whitechapel, so don't look so solemn," he said, clapping Greenie on the shoulder a few times. He slid his brass knuckles on and stretched his fingers a few times, feeling the familiar blood lust begin to sing in his veins.

He leaned outside the back door to where Evie was spinning her new cane sword with relish and practicing her lunges. "Let's claim this borough," he called out, and she gave one last parry, gracefully sliding the blade back into the cane and tucking the whole thing under her arm in one smooth movement.

The final push in getting Evie on board with his plan had ended up being as simple as giving her a tour of a local factory. He had pried her away from her books and taken her to a sawmill one afternoon, ushering her in an upper window where they could perch on a rafter. From there they could see the children, small and malnourished, some chained to the machines. When he had returned to the shop later in the evening, she had been nowhere to be seen. She had finally come back in the small hours of the morning, her blade bloody and her face grim.

"The factory is now under new ownership," she had said, "and the new owner and I had a conversation about ethical working conditions."

He had blinked at her sleepily. "What kind of conversation?"

Even in the dark, he had been able to see the steely look in her eyes. "The kind where he was in bed and my knife was at his throat."

No, there was definitely no need to worry about her in the upcoming fight.

Greenie joined them as far as the meeting with Kaylock's representative. He went up a notch in Jacob's estimation when he gave them a pair of excellent and deadly kukris; worrier or not, the man had excellent taste in weapons.

"Gang War" seemed to Jacob to be a bit of an extravagant name for what actually followed. The initial rush was a disorganized mess as both sides ran at each other, a mass of bodies and flailing limbs. Jacob launched himself into the crowd, throwing a kick to a kneecap there, a punch to a jaw there. He saw a flash of Evie throwing her entire cane into an unfortunate Blighter's face just as Kaylock finally showed up, shouting at them from his train.

Seeing Evie nod at him, Jacob took off at a run after Kaylock, vaulting onto the moving train. The ensuing fight was short. Just as Jacob had suspected, Kaylock was a run-of-the-mill goon with a few fancy toys, all brute strength and no finesse. He died with a faint look of surprise etched on his face, kicked off of the roof of his own train by a swift boot to the chest.

As far as Jacob was concerned, the best part of the day was when he was able to use his stern gang leader glare on the assembled remaining Blighters. They folded like a house of cards. As they accepted coats in Rook colours, Jacob magnanimously declared them all under his and Evie's leadership.

With his gang now officially underway, the crowd cheering, and even Evie whooping happily behind him, Jacob thought he had to be the happiest man in London.

* * *

 _Jacob,_

 _Thank you for the post. Harry the barman is writing this for me. (Cheers, Jacob. -Harry)_

 _London sounds exciting and I hope you're getting on with Evie. The Rooks is a cracking name for a gang._

 _Glad the betting is good where you are. Big-Ears Ronny tried to cheat me at dice last night so I gave him what for. Said that if he didn't pay me double I would take his dick and_

 _(Sorry Jacob, couldn't bring myself to write that down. -Harry)_

 _He handed over my money after that._

 _Don't YOU miss ME too much,_

 _Polly (and Harry)_

* * *

 _Evie,_

 _I cannot pretend that I was pleased by your news. You are both taking a tremendous risk and your lives hang in the balance._

 _The Templars are powerful and must be treated with as much caution as possible. I entreat you to heed the wisdom of the Council and return to Crawley._

 _I have arranged for the care of your horses._

 _Let the Creed guide you. Please be safe._

 _G. Westhouse_


	6. Books

The train came with an unexpected gift in the form of Agnes MacBean. Unflappable, no-nonsense and extremely Scottish, she showed them where they could put their things before heading off to find supplies. After catching her patting the train and cackling happily about Kaylock's demise, Jacob made a mental note to stay on her good side.

When it came time to choose where to sleep, he got the couch. He didn't actually mind, but he made a big show of complaining about the unfairness of it all- it was, after all, the principle of the matter.

Moving in was simple. He had picked up a few spare shirts when they arrived in London, and after tucking those in a shelf along with his weapons, he felt quite at home. He sat on his couch for a few minutes, twiddling his thumbs, getting used to the carriage.

Almost immediately bored, he went to go bother Evie.

She was setting up a shelf of books near her bed, neatly placing her files of notes beside them.

He frowned. "Where did you even find all of those? I know you didn't bring any books from home."

"They're from Mr. Green," she replied primly.

"You're borrowing them?"

She smiled. "No, they were a gift."

He narrowed his eyes. " _Were_ they now," he said, his voice heavy with meaning.

She ignored the subtext. "Just because you spent 8 months working through _Varney the Vampire_ , Jacob, it doesn't make reading a chore for the rest of us."

Greenie fancied Evie. It was as obvious as the nose on his face, Jacob thought, and he was about to say something about it when her last comment sunk in. "Hang on."

"Hmm?" Evie said, no longer really paying attention, now sorting some more of her notes.

"How do you know that it took me eight months to read _Varney the Vampire_?"

He saw her jaw tense slightly, her tell when it came to nerves.

He walked over and sat next to her on the bed, giving her his shrewdest look. "That book never left my room," he said quietly, "and in fact, I seem to recall that it never left the inside of my bedside table. So why oh why, sister _dearest_ , do you know how long it took me to read it?"

Being this close meant that he could smell her hair; if it hadn't been the middle of the day with people constantly wandering by, he would have leaned in and breathed in her scent. Almost every night now, they would end up writhing against each other until they were sweaty and panting, barely any clothes left, lips bruised and puffy. But she would always push him away just as things were getting the most interesting, leaving him to work out his frustration on his own in the small outhouse behind Greenie's shop. It would be nice to have some attention that wasn't from his own hand, he thought wistfully.

"Someone had to clean up after you every once in a while," she muttered, dragging him back to the present. She still couldn't quite meet his eyes.

The carriage door creaked open and Greenie stuck his head in. "Jacob, I believe I know who can fix this," he said, holding out Kaylock's grappling hook. "He can see us tomorrow; we can all go."

Jacob nodded, distracted for the moment. "I knew you would, Greenie," he said with a satisfied drawl.

He would have to badger Evie about her spying later.

* * *

"To the Rooks!"

The Black Swan was packed to the gills with revellers, all of them wearing coats in whatever shade of green they had been able to find. Everyone was giddy with their first success. There were no casualties to mourn and no interest in planning for the future: just pure celebration. The taps were running freely and a fiddler was standing on one of the tables, furiously sawing away while some of the older gents warbled along drunkenly.

Evie was crushed in a corner with Ned Wynert, who was holding forth about advances in combustible engine technology.

"It's the way of the future, I'm telling you, and there's a mint to be made- although, speaking of mints," he leaned in conspiratorially, "how would you two feel about making a little money on the side?"

"I know you've only just met us, but we're not contract killers."

"Nothing like that," he said with a chuckle. "But the Blighters have a stranglehold on the trading and selling of certain goods- tea, for example, and tobacco."

"Right," Evie said, ducking as a boot flew out of nowhere and hit the wall behind her head.

"And wouldn't it just be a _shame_ ," Ned continued, giving his beer a thoughtful swirl, "if some of that cargo went missing? And if someone were to- oh, I don't know- sell it at an undercut price? It would just be _so awful_ if that person made a profit anyway because the goods were stolen to begin with."

"I'm assuming we would be involved in the part where the cargo goes missing," Evie said dryly.

"You're quick, and I like that," Ned replied. "I could promise you, say, 30% of the profit?"

Evie narrowed her eyes. "60%."

Ned whistled. "That's ambitious- 35%?"

"I might go down to half."

"How about 40% and I'll throw in all the fuel for your train that you'll ever need."

"You have a deal," Evie said, reaching out to take his hand.

Ned looked pleased. "I knew this was going to be an advantageous relationship. Do you have to check with your brother?"

"I can guarantee that he won't mind," she replied. "Although, I should go make sure that he hasn't broken or set fire to something yet." She set her empty tankard down and started to wriggle her way through the crowd, hearing Ned yell after her, "I'll be in touch to iron out the details!"

She pushed towards the noisiest part the room, and sure enough, Jacob was there. He had stripped down to his trousers and was standing on just one hand, a tankard of beer precariously set on his boot, all of the muscles in his back twitching as he fought to balance. The crowd around him chanted louder and louder, "twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty- _seven_ , twenty- _eight_ , _twenty_ - _niiiiiine_ , _THIRTY!_ " before breaking into cheers and laughter. He flicked his ankle and rolled in time to catch the tankard, most of the beer slopping over the floor, throwing his head back to chug what was left to raucous applause.

"Thank you, thank you," he yelled, "and now, gentlemen, time to pay up." He held a hand out to a group of disgruntled looking men as they collected a stack of bills and passed it to him. "Next round's on me!" he yelled to more cheering.

She propped herself up next to him when he got to the bar. "How long did you practice that?"

"I told them a month, but it was more like two years." He passed the stack of bills to the bartender, who looked like Christmas had come early. "Completely worth it though, it's a crowd-pleaser."

"Where are your clothes?" she asked.

"I don't know, they're around," he waved his hand. "Our new Rooks wanted to see my tattoos, and I live only to serve."

She rolled her eyes with a smile. "Wynert wants us to rob Blighter trade convoys."

"That's brilliant," he grinned.

"I negotiated 40%."

"Oh, he's paying us?" Jacob said, accepting another tankard from the bartender. "I would do it for free."

"Please don't tell him that," she said, feeling a bit pained at the thought. "You have an audience, by the way."

Jacob twisted around to where she was looking and saw the little clump of girls eyeing him shyly, giggling to each other and giving their most inviting smiles. He waved and they all laughed, a few of them waving back coquettishly.

He shot her a sideways look. "Jealous?" he murmured, passing her a beer.

"Oh please," she said with a smirk. He shrugged and wandered back towards the crowd of Rooks who were now yelling that he should try and do the same handstand, but this time on a table.

She watched as the flock of girls drifted over, emboldened by his wave. He offered one of them his beer and they all giggled again. A tall brunette, wrapped in a snug green coat, reached out a hand and traced a finger along his tattoo. He leaned over and said something in her ear, quickly shooting a glance back at Evie. The girl laughed and nodded.

Evie bit her cheek and looked away. She wasn't jealous of the girls themselves, but she was definitely jealous of how they were able to show their affection so freely.

She hadn't fully appreciated the way that the secrecy would affect things. It meant never being able to completely relax or settle, never able to commit in public. There was no possibility of warding off other flirts, none of the benefits of being possessive.

Jacob jumped up onto the table and leaned into another handstand as the crowd cheered him on, pushing off onto just one arm. A man hopped on a chair and balanced another tankard of beer on Jacob's heel as everyone started to chant, "one, two, three..."

Evie looked at the crowd of girls, still nudging each other, and back at her idiot brother, forced to admit that the balance and strength required for that stupid trick was fairly impressive. As were the muscles in his back. She took a long chug of her beer and slammed the tankard on the counter.

No more wavering, she thought. Damn my principles. Even if she couldn't commit in public, she could certainly commit in private.

* * *

Jacob staggered back to the train, no longer sure what time it was. He'd lost his watch at some point in the evening. It was late, anyway.

All he had on his mind was the sweet embrace of the couch when he saw Evie in the doorway. She was in her nightdress with her hair down, which he always considered a treat because it was so often tucked up and away. He reached towards her happily, forgetting the couch and wanting a kiss.

She held up a hand against his chest to stop him. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright. "Would you like to know why I knew your reading habits?"

"Beg pardon?" he asked groggily, not following.

She took him by the hand and led him to her carriage, locking the door behind her. He stood awkwardly by her chair as she sat on the edge of the bed.

She tucked some hair behind her ear. "After you started leaving in the evenings," she started nervously, "I missed you. And sometimes I would go to your room, have a poke around in the shelves or lie in your bed." Her cheeks were now a little pink underneath her freckles. "But sometimes, well, I- it's easier to show you."

Was he still drunk? He felt like he was missing something. "I still don't- oh," he said dumbly, as she lay back and drew the nightdress up to the edge of her hips, sliding her hand between her legs. " _Oh_ ," he breathed, suddenly lightheaded, holding out a hand to brace himself against the wall as the blood roared to his hips.

Her eyes were closed in focus and her face was turning pinker as her hand moved in small circles, clearly a practiced motion. Jacob felt like the gears in his brain were jamming. "You did this in my _bed?_ " he said, equal parts enthralled and disappointed that he hadn't known sooner. "I swear to God, Evie, you don't know how much I- if I'd had any idea-" he was babbling, but his words slid into a strangled groan as she started to buck her hips slightly, arching her back.

She paused and lifted her other hand to beckon him with a finger. He couldn't move fast enough, coat and hat dropping to the floor, pulling his shirt over his head, swearing as it got stuck around his neck, nearly ripping the buttons in his haste to get it off. Too much damned fabric between him and her.

He settled down beside her and slid a hand along her hips to lift the fabric a little higher, hoping to get a proper view. He was a bit worried that she would suddenly stop things again, but this time it seemed like she was too preoccupied to care. God, this is incredible, he thought, unable to believe his luck, half wanting to pinch himself and check if this was a dream. He had definitely had dreams like this. Actually, no, this was more forward than most of his dreams. Was that even possible?

Evie's eyes opened. "I wish you wouldn't stare so much," she mumbled, looking embarrassed.

He just moved a hand to her thigh in response, sliding down until he found her warm slit, tracing it with a finger and hearing the click of moisture. She was mortified now, he could tell, absolutely torn between being embarrassed and not wanting him to stop. She was so cute when she was this confused. It made him feel strangely possessive, knowing that no one else ever saw this side of her. To them, she was confident, take-charge Evie. There wasn't so much of that here.

He continued to rub up and down, watching the lust win out. Fuck, he was so hard. He pushed a finger inside her, a little worried about hurting her, but he needn't have bothered. She gasped a little at first, her shoulders tensing in surprise, but within moments she had arched into it happily, wriggling to try and give him a better angle. The sighs turned to groans as he added another finger and pumped faster and harder.

His thoughts were becoming an incoherent mix of excitement and want as he climbed over top of her, leaning down to kiss her properly. When he felt her hand tugging at the hem of his trousers, he wondered if he had died and gone to heaven.

No, he thought suddenly, never mind, this wasn't something that would happen in heaven, God _definitely_ didn't approve of siblings doing-

The thought was wiped from his head as her hand reached tentatively for his cock, gripping it gently, slowly moving into a rubbing motion. He had to focus or he was going to finish immediately, he suddenly realized. That would be a bit humiliating. Her hands were smaller and much less sure than his, yes, but it was _her_.

He curved his fingers upwards inside her, trying to remember what he knew about women and pleasure. It seemed to help and her movements grew more focused, her noises more intent. He worked until she suddenly went rigid, arching her back and letting out a desperate sob, her whole body trembling. He pressed his mouth down on hers as she came, her moans coming out in stutters against his lips; if only there was some way to bottle those noises, he thought desperately, and save them forever.

"That looked fun," he managed to croak cheerfully when she was done.

She shot him a look before she pushed him away, sitting up and climbing over to straddle him, resuming her stroking. She was kissing him possessively and he let his hands roam freely, admiring the small waist, the soft breasts. Her grip suddenly tightened on him and he groaned. Damn it, that was bad. Focus, Jacob, he thought, _focus_ , come on, _one-hundred, ninety-seven, ninety-four_ \- oh _hell_ , he was gonna –

He spent all over her hand, gasping her name, and collapsed onto her neck happily. His mind was a blissful white haze, his whole being limp with happiness. She giggled and rolled him over onto her bed, standing to return with a basin of water and a cloth.

"Holy hell," he mumbled as she cleaned him up. "What did I do to deserve this, was it something good? Was it the trick at the bar? That was a bloody amazing handstand, right? You know I practiced that for almost two years-"

"Shh, Jacob," she interrupted, setting the basin aside and giving him a kiss. "Shh."

He was silent for a moment before lifting his head to squint at her. "How did you know how to do that?" he whispered.

"You can learn a lot of things in books," she laughed, "if you read more than _Varney the Vampire._ The French can be quite instructive."

Squished into her tight bed, they drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Evie was having a lie-in.

Sated and happier than she could remember feeling in a long time, she had allowed the couple of extra hours, enjoying the warmth of being under the covers. Jacob was on the train somewhere; she could occasionally hear the mutter of his voice, having a conversation with Mr. Green or Agnes.

The train was sitting at the station when there was a knock on her carriage door. She wasn't expecting anyone.

When she tugged her nightdress on and pulled the door open, the brunette from the pub- the flirt with wandering fingers- was standing on the balcony. She passed a parcel to Evie, who stared at her in confusion.

The girl beamed. "Those are your letters," she said. "Jacob said you wanted 'em."

Evie blinked. "My letters?"

"Miss Thorne's letters?" the girl prompted. "He asked me to get 'em last night. I looked into it and she sends 'em by a private messenger. Easy enough to knap 'em from his bag, copy 'em, and put 'em back." she grinned proudly.

They might have information about the Shroud. Evie felt a rush of excitement. "Thank you."

"Is Jacob here?" the girl said hopefully, peering around.

"Sorry, no," Evie lied, and shut the door in her disappointed face. It was a petty thing to do, she knew, but still so satisfying. The girl was far too pretty by half.

Right on cue, Jacob poked his head into her carriage from the other direction. "Did someone call my name?"

"Just your imagination," she said with a smile, as the train whistled and began to chug out of the station. At least while they were here, she didn't have to share.

* * *

It was Jacob's first time in an asylum and he was already sincerely hoping that it would be his last. He liked to think that it took a lot to rattle him, but the antiseptic smell in the halls and the faint screams in the distance were enough to set anyone's teeth on edge.

He pulled the dead body off the slab, hauling it over his shoulder to go hide it somewhere. It felt like a bag of meat- which, Jacob supposed, it technically was. It wasn't that he didn't interact with dead bodies pretty regularly, just that they normally hadn't been dead for so _long_.

Did Darwin do dissections in his study, Jacob wondered. He must have studied anatomy, mustn't he? Educated men seemed to do that sort of thing. He didn't understand the appeal.

The echoing footsteps of the medical assistant made Jacob hurry, shoving the cadaver in a closet and running back to the slab, pulling the sheet over his face. Ugh, it smells like dead person, he thought, trying not to breathe too loudly as they jolted up the dumbwaiter. Evie would probably make him wash before she would let him kiss her tonight.

Dr. Elliotson's voice filtered through the sheet. "And here we have an example of- wait a minute, cadavers don't have boots?"

That was as good a cue as any. Whipping the sheet off of his body, Jacob leapt up and pushed his blade into the good doctor's throat.

One target down, Jacob thought, as Dr. Elliotson fell to the ground with a shocked gurgle. He writhed on the floor as the students screamed, fleeing the hall in droves. And no more soothing syrup, Jacob added with some satisfaction.

It was a solid start.

* * *

 **Notes:**

"Knap" is lower-class Victorian slang for "steal".

Incidentally, _Varney the Vampire_ is a real series that ran from 1845-47. This obviously makes it a little old for Jacob to be enjoying it as bedtime reading, but the title was so charming that I couldn't pass up a chance to use it. It was also massive: at over 650,000 words, it's no wonder that it took Jacob a while to wade through it all.


	7. Trouble

Night had long since fallen. Jacob and Evie were on the edge of the City, perched on a roof in the dark, awaiting Lucy Thorne's delivery.

Jacob was leaning against a chimney, vaguely wishing that it was possible to bring a beer to these sorts of things. Fall was coming and the evenings had a nip to them now, making the thought of a drink all the more appealing. He hadn't had to come along, of course, but they had mostly been working independently since arriving in London, and he missed seeing Evie in action.

He could do without the waiting, though.

"I bet if I were someone else," he said to Evie, whose eyes were firmly trained on the road below, "we'd be kissing right now."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not," he pouted. "You're being paranoid about secrecy."

That earned him a pained look. "I know this may be hard for you to believe, but I'm trying to focus on the task at hand."

"See, you think that, but you don't know what it's like to be with anyone else. It's kissing-central. All the time. No sneaking around, just kissing."

Her eyes were back on the road now. "You would know a lot about that, would you?"

"I wasn't kidding about being a hit with the ladies in the village- you, on the other hand, were never let more than ten feet away from Father's sight. He would've killed any brat that looked at you sideways." He was vaguely pleased to realize that he and Father had agreed on at least one thing.

Her mouth twitched in a smile. "You and Father both seemed to think that food appeared in our pantry magically, I swear. Both so observant unless it came to _women's work_."

"Sorry?" He frowned and scooted down to the edge of the roof so he was even with her.

"I started doing the household shop when I was 10, Jacob. Four trips into town a week to get food, two hours each trip, completely unsupervised."

"So?"

She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Only three of those were actually for shopping."

"You devious wench," he breathed, equal parts impressed and annoyed that he hadn't noticed. "What was the fourth trip?"

"Sometimes it would just be a walk and some time to be alone." She tensed as a wagon rolled down the street below and relaxed as it turned a corner and rattled away. "But sometimes…"

"Do tell," he prompted with a poke as she trailed off.

She waved his arm away. "Do you remember Jonathan?"

He combed through his memories of Crawley. A vague image swam up in response. "Farmer's son? Stocky. Dark hair."

"By the time I was 17, that fourth trip was sometimes to visit him."

There was a long silence until Jacob slowly said "And by 'visit', you mean…"

"Kissing behind the barn, yes, what do you think?"

He abruptly stood.

She frowned up at him. "What are you doing?"

"I have to go back to Crawley and kill him," he said calmly, reflexively giving his hidden blade a practice twist. "Where do I leave from, again? Paddington?"

"Sit down," she said irritably. "He's married now, and you were _just_ telling me about all of your own conquests."

"That's different," he muttered, but crouched back down nonetheless. "I was just trying to find something to replace you."

"What makes you think I was doing anything different?"

He considered it. That made him feel better, even if the thought of her wrapped in someone else's arms still made a vein in his temple start to throb. "I'm much more handsome than him, though."

"If you say so," she replied, looking away- to hide a smile, he suspected. What? He _was_.

"You said you never lied to Father," he pressed. "Isn't that a lie? Hmm?"

"He never asked, so I never had to, and I would've told him if he ever had," she said quietly.

"I guess _Jonathan_ posed a bit less of a problem on the social acceptability side of things."

"A little," she agreed. "Now be quiet, this is it." They both took in the twenty or so Blighters crawling out like ants onto the street.

"Snipers on the roof," he said quietly.

"Get rid of them, would you?"

"I thought you were going to give me a challenge," he said, enjoying the smirk she shot in his direction.

It was an easy enough task. The snipers went down one by one as he silently slid his blade across their throats, catching them so they wouldn't make a noise as they slumped to the ground. Starrick should invest in some situational awareness training, he thought, as he laid the last one down.

Not sure what else to do, he settled down to watch the action down below. Not that there was a lot to watch. He couldn't see where Evie was throwing her knives from, but as usual, her aim was excellent. He had to admire that sort of craftsmanship.

He sighed and looked up at the stars. Or at least, where the stars would have been if the smog covering London wasn't so thick. Jonathan was a surprise, he thought, twisting his mouth a little. Did she have any other surprises? A bitter taste took hold as the image of the two of them floated up again, but it eased when he replaced the faceless Jonathan with himself.

Could they have had more time together if he'd said something sooner? Or would Father have noticed? Jacob frowned. The old bastard had been canny, no doubt about it, and he'd been suspicious enough after the Incident.

Given what he knew now, he couldn't help but smile at his own panic after that first near-kiss. Thoughts of that quickly led to much more pleasing memories of the night in her train carriage. He grinned into the dark. With any luck, they could soon have a repeat performance on that front.

She'd been a bit skittish since then, preoccupied with this shipment of Thorne's, but maybe after this was over they could have another go. Maybe he had to talk her into going out with the Rooks one more time, give her a chance to loosen up a little. He was about to happily lose himself in a daydream about the myriad possibilities when he suddenly saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eyes.

A Blighter was perched on the edge of the roof, slowly raising a gun to point it at Jacob's head.

"Hey there big guy," Jacob drawled, drawing a knife from inside his coat and throwing it directly into the goon's forehead.

His smile froze on his face as the man staggered backwards, lost his footing, and fell to the ground with an almighty crash.

"Shit," he hissed, scrambling towards the edge of the roof. He looked over the edge of the building just in time for a window to be thrown open. Lucy Thorne's head popped out and she whipped around to look upwards; it was hard to say whose eyes widened more when she saw him, frozen in place.

Jacob vaulted over the side of the building, racing to Evie as Thorne began to scream orders that were incomprehensible at this distance.

Even as the adrenaline pumped through his veins and he felt the usual thrill of an oncoming chase, it occurred to him that this was probably going to be a setback in terms of his sex life.

* * *

From the moment that Mr. Green opened the notebook that Evie had managed to rescue from her disaster of a mission, she couldn't help but notice how different he was from Jacob.

Mr. Green immediately understood the value of what she had found.

Mr. Green spoke of Father with respect.

Mr. Green let her take the lead and didn't launch off in inexplicable directions for no apparent reason.

Mr. Green didn't pepper the air with constant inappropriate comments.

Mr. Green stayed out of her way while she made her way into Kenway's mansion, and when he joined her, he did so without setting off any alarms.

By the time they found and opened the secret room in Kenway's mansion, she had almost started to feel like things had been too easy and that disaster was just around the corner. Was it even possible for a mission to be this simple, this straightforward? And yet, they were able to descend into the treasury unmolested, and when Lucy Thorne finally did show up, Mr. Green had quickly found the mechanism to slide the secret entrance shut, keeping her locked out and furious. Why weren't things always this easy?

There was so much about Mr. Green that was sweeter and shyer than Jacob had ever been. When he had casually mentioned coming along for further missions, she couldn't help but feel an entirely different future opening up in front of her.

And there had been further surprises to come. Back on the train, eager to further examine the papers in Kenway's mansion, she found him sorting books near her desk. One of them fell open to reveal pressed plants.

"A herbarium?" she asked, somewhat charmed at the idea of London's final hold-out Assassin, the last bastion against the Templars, preserving flowers on his time off. "Are you collecting flowers for someone?"

"Only for myself. I am told it's something of a British pastime. Did you know they all have symbolic meanings?"

"I had heard something of the sort," she said, trying not to point out that it was hardly possible to be alive in their times and not know that. Flowers for courtship, flowers for birth, each symbolic ritual decked with symbolic flowers. Flowers for weddings, flowers for funerals. The white flowers on Father's grave.

"Of course you have. Unfortunately, I have no time to fill the book," he said, looking a bit regretful.

"I could collect some samples, if you would accept my help," she offered. She had single-handedly run the vegetable garden at their home in Crawley and there had been some occasional flowers, enough that she recognized the dominant species.

He smiled. "I would appreciate that. Thank you, Miss Frye."

Evie settled into her desk as he left, trying to train her attention on the words on the page. It was hard to focus. She wasn't used to being distracted from her work, and she didn't like the feeling.

Mr. Green had feelings for her. She wasn't so naïve that she didn't know what that looked like, even if she wasn't sure of what to do about it. Or if she had to do anything about it at all.

He was sweet, there was no question of that.

It made for a strange contrast; after all, Jacob had been the only young male presence in her life for so long. Or at least, the only one that could even hope to match her.

There had been village boys, of course- Jonathan, for one- but they were destined for lives with village girls, lives full of farming and church picnics and children that would grow into more village girls and boys. Lives that didn't leave a trail of death and blood in their wake. She had known that since her very first mission, from the moment that she severed the spine of a Templar factory owner and he had pissed himself, the life leaving his eyes before he had even hit the floor. There could be no more normal after that.

She had genuinely thought that she had found a bit of clarity in the situation with Jacob. He was her match, the sun to her moon. The heads to her tails. It just felt right. Their evening together had been dreamlike, and a sweeping part of her brain wanted to do that again. It had been simple enough in the moment and in the days after, when everything had been covered by a happy tinge, just like the one that had followed when they had first kissed. In that time, she had been ready to never look back.

Whenever he was in a room with her, she was ready to never look back.

But as his mistakes had made her life more difficult, as some distance had cooled her brain and- well, other parts of her- things became much less simple in her mind. Mr. Green was just another unwelcome reminder of outside eyes. She didn't return his romantic feelings, but she wanted him to respect her, to view her as an equal.

She put her face in her hands. There wasn't a lot of respect to go around for girls who did- did- well, _that_ \- with their brothers. Just disgust.

* * *

Jacob drummed his fingers on the side of Evie's chair. He was in the dark, slouched unhappily in the stiff fabric, trying to fend off boredom. Normally this was his time to be out with the Rooks for the evening, gathering information and building their loyalty. Well, okay, it was time to be drinking, but the latter was much the same as the former. Instead, he was stuck here, impatiently waiting for Evie to make an appearance. He shifted irritably. She had been avoiding him for almost a week now, and he was determined to get at least a conversation out of her.

Yes, the Thorne situation had been a bit of a disaster. But there had been no precursor object to intercept in any case. He couldn't see why the trunk of papers had been such a loss. He'd tried to say as much, but that hadn't gone particularly well.

And yes, the situation with Clara was unfortunate, and he still felt bad about it. But he could hardly be expected to keep on top of every crook in the city. He'd eventually tracked down the source of that particular batch of poor medicine and given them a sound thrashing. Not that he could tell Evie that. Given that he couldn't tell her anything. Because she wasn't speaking to him.

He returned to drumming his fingers.

After what felt like an eternity, he heard the gentle click of her carriage door latch.

"Welcome back," he said clearly as the door opened and the lights flickered on, ever aware of the risks involved with surprising Evie Frye.

She only tensed a little bit. "You," she said, sounding tired. "Would you mind leaving so I can retire for the evening?"

"Not until we talk," he said.

"You can't be serious," she said, narrowing her eyes.

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "I need to know why you're treating me like I have the pox."

She rubbed her face. "Jacob, I don't want to have this conversation right now."

"I've been trying to have it for days."

She shrugged her coat off and started to unlace her boots. "All right, fine. Talk, then."

He hadn't expected to be successful, so he found that he didn't know where to start. "Er… I'm terribly sorry?"

"For what?" she asked, setting her boots aside and now undoing the vest.

Jacob tried to ignore the undressing. "For losing the trunk. And for what happened to Clara."

"Apology accepted. Now, may I sleep?" she said, turning away to start undoing her braids.

He stood and twisted her into a kiss. It was slow and sweet, and she stood perfectly still until he pulled away. "Look," he started again, pressing his forehead to hers. "I miss you."

She took a deep breath. "I miss you too," she said, not fully meeting his eyes.

"Then why," he said, days worth of exasperation creeping into his voice, "do I feel like you've been avoiding me? I thought things were going well."

She closed her eyes. "It's complicated."

"Explain, then."

"Jacob, this- we- look, we've got a job to do here, and you're making my life more difficult," she said haltingly.

"I _apologized_ for that," he said, "and I swear, none of those things were things that were meant to even happen. Someone had to take out the target, I did it, and I can't always control the consequences of what happens-"

"But you've always been too reckless," she snapped, pushing away from him. "And then I have to tidy up after you, and it's about more than that anyway-"

"What is it, then?" he said, throwing his hands in the air. "We're a good team, we always have been-"

"You're too distracting right now," she blurted out, a flush creeping up from her neck.

Well, that certainly wasn't what he was expecting. "What?" he said, mostly confused.

"I can't let thinking about you compromise my work- and I still don't know how I feel about- well, about-"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated. "About being my sister. I swear, one minute you're pawing my clothes off and the next you're shoving me out on my ass, you couldn't be more damned infuriating if you were doing it on purpose."

"I'm going to ignore that description of me for the moment," she said, her face now completely pink. "And then there's Mr. Green," she added slowly.

"Mr. Green," he repeated slowly, his brows snapping together. "What about Greenie? Has he finally worked up to saying something instead of just mooning over you?"

"He's not mooni- that- ugh, never mind, no, of course not," she said, settling heavily onto the bed and rubbing her face. "But it keeps reminding me of why I'll never be able to properly explain why I'm not going to respond- to him, or anyone. And if he were to ever find out, can you imagine the consequences? People would never understand, Jacob, and it would make us both pariahs. This is so _complicated_ and I don't need complicated, I need to be focusing on finding the shroud."

Jacob sat down on the bed next to her and they silently stared into space for a minute. Finally, he sighed and put an arm around her shoulders. "I don't know how you can think about this so much."

"You could do with thinking about it a little more," she responded, sounding a bit pained.

"Why begin now," he quipped with a grin.

She rolled her eyes and leaned into the crook of his neck, her breath soft in his chest. He really had missed her.

"Well," he started, "now that I know what's happening, I can clear off. Don't worry about me," he said, putting one hand earnestly to his heart. "I'll just be away crying into a beer somewhere, pining. I may die from the drink, and when they bury me the headstone will say 'Here lies Jacob Frye, dead from a broken heart because Evie ignored him but also a lot of beer, probably too much at once if we're honest, also he gambled a lot but he did a tremendous handstand, for which he will be missed. Amen.'."

"Descriptive," she muttered sleepily.

He snickered and started to stand but her fingers tightened on his jacket.

"Don't leave," she said quietly.

"I thought I was so devastatingly handsome that I was distracting you from your work?" he grinned.

"Oh shut up," she whispered, pulling him down for another kiss.

* * *

Early one morning after rising in the room that she kept in Whitechapel, Agnes noticed that her coin purse was no longer in her dress pocket. It could have been nipped, of course, but she thought it was more likely that it was still sitting on her desk in the train. Really must stop being so forgetful, she scolded herself, rubbing her hands over the small stove fire she had started for her morning tea and toast. She needed that money to buy breakfast for Mister and Miss Frye.

Ah well, she thought, she would just stop by a little early. Get the money and then go get their breakfast. Hopefully it was there- if not, she would just have to borrow some coin from Miss Frye. There probably wouldn't be anything to borrow from Mister Frye; he had a tendency to spend every ha'penny on drink and whist and God only knows what else.

She headed out into the morning mist, off to the train yard where Bertha was parked for the night. Normally she met them at Whitechapel at half past seven- the train's first regular stop- but she knew where the train was before that. She always knew where Bertha was.

When she reached the train, she gingerly poked her head into the carriage. It was empty. She had expected to find Mister Frye snoring on the couch, but he must have already left. Or perhaps he had never come home.

She saw with relief that the coin purse was still sitting on her desk, just as she'd suspected. As she reached to get it, she noticed Mister Frye's boots and gauntlet on the floor.

Now that's strange, she thought, frowning at the boots. Mister Frye never left without those.

Agnes was not a nosy woman. She generally kept her own council and relied on others to do the same. You didn't get to be a woman with her job without being that way.

In keeping with this, she had just decided to ignore the whole matter and leave when the connecting door swung open. And there was the absent Mister Frye, hair askew and with what was very obviously a purpling bite mark on his shoulder, standing on the threshold in only his trousers.

There was a beat of stunned silence before he reached back and snapped the door of Miss Frye's carriage shut behind him.

In that brief moment, Agnes was sure that she saw a pale female back, covered in dark glossy hair.

"Morning Agnes," Mister Frye said, his voice cheerful and only slightly strained.

"Mornin'," Agnes replied faintly. "Forgot me purse, had to get it afore I could fetch breakfast."

He grinned at her. "You're a treasure," he said, pulling his shirt on. "Get sausages, would you?"

"Can do," she mumbled before leaving as fast as she could.

Agnes shook her head once she was back out on the tracks, deciding to take the long way round so that the mysterious female guest could have time to leave in privacy. It was awfully generous of Miss Frye to donate her room for _that_ , she thought, and it somehow didn't match her image of the woman that she worked for. It seemed more like the sort of thing that Miss Frye would lecture her brother about, not encourage. And she herself certainly wouldn't feel comfortable lending a bed to a sibling for- well, for that purpose.

And where was Miss Frye? Had she rented a room for the evening somewhere?

The woman, realistically, could've been any one of the young Rooks buzzing around Mr. Frye. Although with that frame and hair colour, she did look a _lot_ like-

Agnes shook her head. Preposterous. Even though a persistent nudge at the back of her mind told her that it wanted considering, she ignored it.

By the time she was getting the sausages, she had decided to put the event out of her mind.

From now on, though, she would take extra care to not forget anything on the train when she packed up for the night.


	8. Fight

Evie didn't know where she was. She couldn't move. People needed her help. She felt pinned to the ground, her breathing restricted, her mind ablaze. A metal tang was in the air. She felt something pushing her legs apart and she reacted fiercely, twisting her body and trying to crush it between the force of her thighs.

And in that moment she awoke, becoming aware of Jacob frantically flapping his hands on her stomach and making strangled noises, his neck gripped in her choke hold.

"What-" she stammered, immediately releasing him so that he lurched backwards off her bed, coughing. "Jacob?"

"Jesus," he croaked, massaging his throat. "That's a hell of a thank you."

He had to have been the crushing presence in her dream, even if he hadn't intended it. "What were you doing?"

He was still eying her warily, just out of reach from a good kick. "What do you think?"

"But why?" she said, pushing up onto her elbows. It was morning, she could see, a weak light filtering through the curtains of her carriage.

"You can't be serious."

She pushed her sticky hair out of her face. "I was having a bad dream." It was still lingering, the shape of the nightmare persistent even as the details disappeared.

"All the more reason that, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get back to where I was before I was so _rudely_ interrupted." He gingerly approached the bed and pushed up one of her legs, kissing along the inside of her thigh.

"Is this strictly necessary?" she asked, a bit embarrassed.

"Absolutely," he murmured, his breath ticklish on her skin. "Today is gang-war day, and all great Assassins of old would prepare for a battle with a lusty tumble."

She frowned. "You made that up," she said, a little breathless as he moved the hem of her nightgown back above her waist, his kisses creeping higher and higher.

"I did," he agreed easily. Idiot, she thought fondly.

He had proved impossible to ignore, despite her best intentions. And if she wasn't ignoring him, that meant they were spending time together, and if they were spending time together, that meant- well, it meant that things were _progressing_. It was always behind locked doors and only when there was no chance of being spotted, but that still left almost every evening.

He was starting to take the lead a little more now, here and there, in small steps. She found she didn't mind.

She didn't mind at all.

He was still feathering kisses along her hips, on the flat of her abdomen, on the crease of her thigh. Her breathing hitched more and more with each kiss, her fingers curling into the sheets. She could feel the blood pounding in her ears as her hips started to throb.

"Jacob," she said, an edge of desperation in her voice.

"Mm?"

"Don't tease."

He was a breath away from where she wanted him most. "Ask nicely."

"You're being horrible," she said through gritted teeth.

"That's not asking nicely," he rumbled in response, his hands tightening on her hips. He ran his tongue along the flat of her stomach, a promise of what could be.

She closed her eyes and tried to control her thoughts. The anticipation was making her lightheaded and dizzy. "I'm asking you nicely to not be such a prat-"

Her words tripped into a whimper as he ran a finger gently along her wetness. Oh, she was ready. "Charming," he said, "but still not what I'm looking for."

"Please," she finally breathed. "Please, Jacob, please, _please_."

He made a satisfied noise as he mercifully, finally, obliged. Lowering his mouth to flick his tongue at her clit, she felt him push his fingers inside her smoothly, forcing a happy whimper from her throat. Her whimper turned to a groan as he suddenly curved his fingers, twisting them in a way that he'd quickly learned she liked.

He'd always been a fast learner, she thought happily, before the circles of his tongue wiped her mind empty. It took all of her control to not snap her legs shut at the raw sensation of it, flexing her stomach and bucking her hips against him. She could've sworn he moaned as he pulled out his fingers, slipping downwards until she could feel the scrape of his beard against her thighs, his mouth insistent and forceful.

He pushed her along wave after wave of pleasure, working steadily until she was keening, desperate, begging again. She wanted something more than just a tongue, she wanted to say, she wanted the sensation of being filled- but words were too hard to summon, so she tangled tangled her hand in his hair and tugged him upwards, making a pleading noise and hoping he would understand.

He obediently moved upwards and slid his fingers back inside her, his tongue working in small flicks and circles, her breath hitching higher and higher and she felt herself get closer to impending release. She felt him reach for her hand and hold it tightly as the first spasms of orgasm began to grip her, his fingers threaded through hers as she succumbed to it, the metal of her bed frame rattling against the wall as she shook and wailed his name.

Gasping, she relaxed back onto the sheets as he raised his head, a pleasing heaviness sliding through her body. Her eyelids fluttered as her breathing steadied and her lips slid into a smile. He was getting worryingly good at that- she considered telling him so, but if she did, he would probably crow about it for at least a week.

Jacob's head popped into view above her. "It's a good thing that no one else lives on a train. You'd have woken up the entire neighbourhood by now."

"You like that," she murmured, and he chuckled in assent.

The dim light of the train carriage filtered over him, throwing his toned body into sharp relief. Noticing her gaze, he struck a pose and flexed for her. "Like what you see?" He wiggled his eyebrows and she rolled her eyes, throwing a pillow at him as he tried a few different poses.

When that had no effect, she stood slowly and pulled her nightgown off, smiling as he stilled and made an appreciative noise. Stepping towards him, she put her hands gently on his shoulders before she gripped him tightly, turning him and pushing him back towards her bed. She climbed over to straddle him, pinning him down by his arms and leaning down to give his tattoo a quick kiss. She could feel him between her legs, hard as she'd ever known him to be.

He grinned happily. "This is good, right?" His smile suddenly faltered, replaced with wary eyes. "Because you definitely pinned me just like this once and then tickled me until I peed my pants. I would, uh, rather you didn't do that."

"Not what I had in mind, though you shouldn't tempt me," she said, sliding down his front and giving the bulge in his pants a kiss.

He made a strangled noise. "Forget I said anything."

She slid his pants down and feathered his hips with kisses. When he reached down and tried to guide her head, she slapped his hand away.

"Is this revenge?" he said weakly.

She smirked up at him.

He put his hands on his face and groaned as she leaned back down, giving a gentle lick along the trail of hair that led down from his navel. Only when his breathing became unsteady and broken did she move to his length, still keeping her movements light and gentle. She knew that these small kisses could never be enough to satisfy him, only enough to make him want more. She felt his hands start to tremble, clearly wanting it as badly as she had. Good- that was the point.

"Please," he breathed. "Goddamn it Evie, please."

That was probably enough torture. She obediently took him in her mouth, enjoying the blissful moan it produced. There were few things in the world so satisfying.

Combining it with her hands, she moved her head as smoothly as she could, slicking her tongue against his length. He was breathing deeply now, his legs trembling, small noises slipping through his gritted teeth. He wasn't the only one that could learn quickly, she thought smugly. She had come to enjoy this in a strange and possessive way, to enjoy the minutes where he was completely at her mercy, entirely dependent on her for what he wanted. She grasped his hand and moved it to her head, where he immediately tangled his fingers in her hair, pushing her to go faster, harder. She could still smell herself on his fingers, the reminder sending another surge of heat between her legs.

She could taste him now, his excitement nudging him closer to losing control. Closing her eyes, she pushed herself up against the thin sheets and tried to take him in as deeply as she could, leaning into the pressure against the back of her throat. She felt him prop himself up on his elbows; the shuddering gasp that followed was proof enough that he enjoyed what he saw. Enough, apparently, to push him over the edge.

"Shit- Evie-" he slurred, his hand grasping and tugging at her hair, his hips jerking and clenching as she swallowed. He gasped when she pulled away, twitching happily and relaxing all of his tensed muscles, his head settling into her pillow with a goofy smile on his face.

She budged up and flopped on top of him, nuzzling into his neck. They lay there for a few minutes, sated and content, the world a good and beautiful place.

When she eventually stood to pull on her clothes, he whined and tried to hold her down.

"Go on, then," she said, ignoring his complaining. She tugged him out of the bed and shoved him out of the room. "You were the one who said it was a big day."

"I don't see how these things are related," he complained as she elbowed him through the door.

* * *

When Evie went through to Jacob's carriage, she found him humming to himself. "One, two, three, four, I declare a gang war," he sang into the mirror, adjusting his top hat slightly.

The battered cap had recently been swapped out for something that he considered to be more debonair. When she pointed out that it would be a bit hard to hide, he had gleefully demonstrated its collapsible mechanism. The effort he puts into the strangest things, she thought. Baffling. "Do you think the Rooks are ready for this?"

"Ready? Of course they're ready, why wouldn't they be?" He gave his kukri a contented pat.

She chewed on her lip. "This isn't Whitechapel or Southwark, Jacob. The Blighters were hated there, and they were poorly trained, poorly managed, and poorly paid. This the City- these are Blighters that want to keep their jobs, ones that were skilled enough to move up the ranks. They won't go down as easily."

"Paranoia doesn't suit you."

Her eyes narrowed. "This is serious, Jacob."

"And so am I," he said, clapping her on the shoulder. "If you frown so much you'll get wrinkles."

"I appreciate your concern," she said. "Please spare some for the Rooks."

"They'll be fine," he said confidently.

She hoped he was right.

Arriving in the shadow of St. Paul's and seeing their opponents did nothing to ease her concerns. Bloody Norah ran a tight ship. It was evident in the way that they all carried themselves, more confident and organized than the gangs they had faced before.

Jacob shook hands on the negotiated terms and they squared off.

Just as she had worried, things began to go badly almost as soon as the two sides rushed at each other. The tide of green around her was ebbing, figures falling to her left and right. In the distance she could see Jacob out of the corner of her eye, trying to fight three men at once, doing his best to cover the Rooks around him as they fell back, out-manned and outmaneuvered.

The quickest way to end any fight was to get to the leader, she knew. She could fix this. The first wave already scattered in their charge, she ran and slid under the arms of the rear guard, sprinting towards Bloody Norah herself.

Norah spotted her, pushing one of her own out of the way to aim her revolver at Evie's head. "Rooks bitch!" she screamed, bracing her arm and pulling the trigger. Evie lunged sideways to avoid the bullet, feeling the ripple of wind it produced as it whizzed past her ear.

Norah may have been a better gang leader than the others, but that didn't mean anything in close combat. Evie swung her cane forward and hooked the back of Norah's legs, yanking her knees to the ground. Abandoning grace for a brutal show of power, Evie drew her hidden blade and drove it solidly between Norah's eyes, pushing the effort of years of training into her forearm. Norah's eyes closed and her arms fell to her sides, her gun clattering to the ground, almost a figure of supplication in death.

The savagery of it made the surrounding Blighters stop in their tracks, eyes wide and fearful. The silence rippled out and the roar of fighting ended as Evie yanked her blade out and Bloody Norah slid to the ground with a dull thump.

Everyone was looking at her, but she was looking for Jacob.

And there he was, in the middle of the crowd, holding a young Rook who was twitching, a terrible gash across her stomach.

Realizing that the silence was expectant, she yelled at the crowd, "We are Evie and Jacob Frye, and from now on, you work for us! Join the Rooks or retire from gang life for good!"

The Rooks roared and punched the air. The Blighters, in turn, obediently shuffled along to take off their gang colours. Evie took in none of this. Instead she sprinted towards Jacob, shoving people out of her way in her rush, her eyes fixed on his horrified face.

When she reached him, the body had been laid on the ground and another young woman kneeling beside him. "-Can't afford to pay for a funeral," the woman was saying as Evie drew into earshot. "'Er Ma were barely makin' it before, it'll have to be a pauper's grave."

Jacob seemed to be struggling to get his words out. "The Rooks will pay," he said "for the funeral. Please tell her. I'm so sorry- we will pay for any funeral expenses-"

"Jacob," Evie said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. "We're sorry for your loss," she added to the woman, waiting for her nod before she led Jacob away from the fallen body. She elbowed through the crowd, feeling him numbly plodding along behind her.

She waited until they could duck into an alleyway, a moment's quiet in the roar of the city. "Are you all right?" she asked, holding his arms. He had a bruise beginning to form along one side of his neck and his left hand was dripping blood onto the ground. She wasn't sure if he'd noticed.

"Please don't say it," he said.

"What?"

"Please don't say I told you so." He rubbed his face and glanced at his bloody hand in surprise.

"I wasn't-"

"Six of them dead. I didn't even know one of them. He died for me and I don't even know his name."

She gripped his arms harder. "It's a war, and there are always casualties in war."

"Yes, for the _wrong side_ ," he said, his voice desperate. "We've never had other people on our side before."

"They knew what they were signing up for," she insisted. "They knew that there were risks, that this was no game. Life is dangerous here- what we're doing is dangerous. They knew that."

He looked at the ground for a long moment. "I don't like it," he finally said.

"That's a relief." She gave him a small smile. "If you did, I would have no choice but to question your judgement even more than I already do."

That produced a glimmer of a smile in return, she saw with relief. He shook his head, took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "They'll be looking for us," he said, glancing back towards St. Paul's.

"That's the spirit," she said approvingly, giving him a bracing pat and turning to walk back to the gang. "Go back to your board of Templars and decide your next step. Throw yourself into your work and place all of your focus there. I find there's no better balm."

"God, that explains _so much_ ," she heard him quietly mutter as she strode away.

* * *

"Jacob?"

Someone was calling him. A man. The voice was soft. Where was he? His back itched. There was something in his shirt. And his trousers. And his pants.

"Jacob, can you hear me?"

Jacob blinked slowly, the world slowly coming into focus. Damn, it was bright.

"Jacob," the voice said, more insistent now. It was familiar.

"Greenie?" he croaked.

"Yes," the voice said, sounding relieved. "I have been looking for you for several hours."

Jacob tried to raise his head but his vision blurred. He spat something out of his mouth. It was hay, he realized. He was asleep in a pile of hay. Not so different from being back in Crawley, he thought, a smile drifting up until the stabbing pain in his head resumed. He flopped back. "Go away," he groaned. "Leave me here to die."

"I feel that would be a bad decision all around," Greenie replied, sliding an arm around Jacob's shoulder and heaving him to his feet.

Jacob promptly threw up. Thankfully mostly on the ground and only a bit on himself.

Greenie dragged him a few feet and leaned him against a wall, offering him a small canteen. As the water slid down his throat and cleared his head a bit, memories of the last few days came flowing back in unwelcome clarity. Jacob groaned.

"Are you all right?" Greenie asked, making Jacob's eyelid twitch. No, he was not all right.

"Fucking City, fucking Templars," he muttered, "fucking Attaway and her fucking carriages and fucking _good business partners_." He probably wasn't making a lot of sense, but he didn't care. He swigged a mouthful of water and spat it out, trying to clear the foul taste of vomit and day-old beer in his mouth. "Fucking carriages and fucking Evie and how fucking Father was so _fucking_ sure that he was always right and Evie always fucking took his fucking side-"

"All right, all right," Greenie interrupted him, patting him awkwardly. Clearly he didn't appreciate 'Evie' and 'fucking' in the same sentence. "You are distressed, and you need to rest. Miss Frye tells me you haven't been back to the train for three days. She was beginning to get anxious."

Oh, Miss Frye was _anxious_ , was she, Jacob thought bitterly. No doubt she was anxious in short bursts between thinking about an idiot he was for destroying London's transport system, she had made that fairly clear. And, most likely, for being an incompetent gang leader who led his followers to slaughter, even if she insisted that wasn't the case. She didn't even know about Attaway's connection with the Templars yet. Thank God. He had tried to suggest that maybe, just _maybe_ he would have an easier time of things if she would actually help with freeing London instead of wasting all her time looking for mythical artifacts that probably don't exist, but that didn't go down well.

He took another swig and squinted at Greenie. "What makes you think I'm distressed?"

"Your obscenities are generally more creative," he replied.

Jacob felt his face stretch into a smile. "Fair point. Look, I appreciate you coming, but I don't know how you plan to get me back to the train. I'm in a bit of a rough shape here." He looked down at his bare feet. "Also I appear to have lost my boots."

"I have a carriage nearby," Greenie said.

Jacob groaned again. The carriage ride was going to be murder on his head, he could already tell. On the other hand, it would be nice to get the hay out of his trousers and sleep on an actual bed. Well, couch. "Here we go, then," he said, slumping onto Greenie for support. "I suppose we daren't keep _her royal highness_ waiting. Take me home, my good man. Fair warning, I'm going to throw up in the cab on the ride back."

Greenie ignored the second half of his statement, heaving Jacob along on a curious three-legged limp to the carriage. "Miss Frye means well, you know," he said, his eyes a bit too sympathetic for Jacob's liking.

Jacob scrambled into the back of the carriage, slouching in the cramped space and combing the worst of the hay out of his hair with his fingers. Being in the actual body of a carriage made him think about Attaway again. Crazy bitch. _Good business partners_. Who the hell smiles when they're dying?

As Greenie climbed onto the driver's perch and cracked the whip, he leaned his head down and yelled into the carriage, "it's not good for you two to row like this."

"Tell Evie that," Jacob yelled back, doing his damnedest to not barf again.

* * *

Looking out over London, Evie could barely believe the intricacy of the mechanism that she found above St. Paul's cathedral. It was even more magnificent against the complex backdrop of London itself, with its army of people swarming through the warren of confused and tangled streets.

Working with Father had been a solitary experience, mostly them against the world. And Jacob occasionally, she considered, when he was around.

But being here made her realize that she was part of a legacy, a grand tradition that stretched back a millennium. It was one thing to read about it in books, to hear about it from Father, to study old artifacts; it was another entirely to interact with it. This was about more than just her, or the Fryes, or London. It took her breath away.

It was all the more reason to obtain the Shroud before the Templars.

 _You came to London because of Jacob_ , an annoying voice nudged at the back of her head. _Without him you'd still be seething in Crawley._

She decided to ignore that thought for the moment. Jacob had eventually come back to the train with Mr. Green, hungover and looking like death, and had proceeded to mope around the train and generally be a nuisance for the next few days. He kept saying he was doing 'administration for the Rooks' and 'collecting information', but other than the occasional Rook who popped by to update him about something, she didn't see any evidence of his work.

Unfortunately, though, It hadn't stopped him from following her to the beginning of this excursion. Mostly so he could needle her with irritating questions and heavy-handed teasing about Mr. Green. Was he being jealous? It was hard to imagine. Or was it his way of avoiding the confrontation they ought to be having about the omnibuses? He had steadfastly refused to discuss it with her whenever she tried to bring it up.

To start with, why had he killed Attaway? She thought he had mentioned her as an ally- there would definitely be a story there. Though it was looking like she might have to put him in a chokehold for a while to get him to tell it.

His capacity for creating as many problems as he solved was truly astounding. It was almost like… Like he was a small dog. She smiled a little at the thought. Little terrier Jacob. Look, I caught the ball! Be proud of me, he would bark, and then be confused and hurt when he got a flick on the nose because he had torn up the rug in the process. Her smile turned into a giggle. He was so _proud_ when he got affection and praise, which helped the comparison. And he loved his toys.

A stiff breeze blew and she wobbled on the parapet, suddenly remembering that she was meant to be focusing and looking for the key to a priceless treasure, not daydreaming. Thank goodness no one had been around to see her drift off like that. How embarrassing.

She set off and scrambled up the side of the building, looking for the opening that had been created by inserting the disk. At last, in a cupola at the very top of the tower, was the open door. She slid inside, barely noting the stained glass or the stone floor. Her eyes settled on the key as she strode towards it, lifting the chain over her head and tracing its intricate design. She could almost feel Father over her shoulder, triumphant in her- their- discovery.

She was so focused that she didn't even hear Lucy Thorne step into the room.

* * *

Jacob knew that Evie would be horrified if he accepted Roth's invitation to dinner. He couldn't discuss the issue with her because she was still off chasing her supposedly-real magical mystery object, of course, but he didn't _need_ to talk to her about it to know how she would feel about it.

So, naturally, he went the very night that it arrived. It seemed like the only reasonable course of action.

From the moment they toasted to their new arrangement, Jacob couldn't help but be aware of how different it was to work with Roth when compared Evie.

Roth clearly knew that some problems were best solved at the end of a blade.

Roth appreciated that the most direct way to Starrick was through his men.

Roth understood the need for freedom in life, and that rules chafed and irritated more than they created order.

Roth didn't scold or nag him about staying on task or on plan- instead, Jacob suspected that Roth would relish it if things went astray.

Most of all, Roth trusted Jacob to complete the plan, rather than planning for failure.

Blowing up crate after crate of dynamite intended for Starrick, having the satisfaction of denting Starrick's plans, waging guerilla warfare on the Templars- it was some of the most satisfying work that Jacob had done in weeks. An excellent break from messy gang leading and screwed up missions that had dominated his life of late.

By the time he returned to the train yard for the night, he was starting to think that he could get very used to this routine.

His fingers had settled on the door of his carriage when he heard the crack of the gun from a short distance away. Immediately drawing up his hood and ducking into a shadow, he crept along until he saw the source of the noise: Evie, doing target practice by shooting at bottles. Not a crazy Blighter, then, just regular old crazy.

"And here I heard guns and thought it was a threat," he called out, stepping around the corner and into the small clearing where she had set up her targets. He pulled his collapsible hat out of his coat and gave it a shake so it sprung back into shape. Truly marvellous.

"I could be a threat," he heard her mutter, before letting off another round.

"Have a good day, did we?" he yelled over the sound of the bottles exploding.

She stalked back and set up another series of bottles. "Thorne escaped with the key to the shroud." Her whole body was tense, her brow knitted in fury.

"Even without me to disrupt things?" he said, filling his voice with hearty surprise. He walked towards her, spreading his arms wide in disbelief. "How can that be? Evie Frye's plans always succeed when her useless brother isn't there to cock them up."

"Don't try me, Jacob," she snarled, aiming again.

"Maybe it has less to do with me and more that your plans aren't as good as you thi-" he broke off and jumped back as she let the gun off in a quick volley. The combined blasts and shattering glass was deafening up close.

"Do _not_ ," she repeated, glaring at him as she reloaded. "Try me."

Was it wrong to notice that she was so attractive when she was angry, the furious reddening of her cheeks looking so similar to the flush that spread all over her body when she was under his hands? Or was it worse to feel so bloody attracted to her when he could throttle her for being so unbelievably annoying? He raised his hands in surrender. "Fine. I'm off to enjoy some whiskey and my success today, because I'll have you know, _my_ day was a _resounding_ success. Enjoy being pissed on your own."

Rather than going out like usual, he opted to stay in, smirking every time there was another round of noise. The sound of bottles exploding continued well into the early hours of the morning. The steady staccato rhythm of her shooting made it easy to develop a sort of song to go along with it.

"I am," _bang_ , "Eeeevie," _bang_ , "Frye and," _bang bang_ , "I fucked uuuuup," he hummed softly to himself, rereading _Varney the Vampire_ and swaying his glass in time to his song.

This had to be more entertaining than anything the Alhambra could put on.


	9. Winter

_Jacob,_

 _Harry the barman is writing for me again. (Cheers, Jacob. -Harry)_

 _Today I came down from my rooms and Tommy who owns the building says to me that he's got a letter paying for my lodging for the next six months. Who could have done that, I say, and he says a Mr. Jacob Frye._

 _Well dip me in fat and call me a chip, if I wasn't bowled over._

 _You shouldn't waste your money like that on an old woman like me. Unless you are now rich, then I guess you can do whatever the hell you please. Are you a gangster now like in the papers? I've been having Harry read the papers for me so I can know what happens in London where you are. (She threatened unspeakable things if I didn't. -Harry)_

 _I am going to start telling everyone that my Jacob is now a rich gangster in London. The lads at the pub will turn green._

 _Polly (and Harry)_

* * *

 _Dear Evie,_

 _News arrives daily from our sources in London about Templar controlled areas succumbing to a new gang called the Rooks. Even without word from you, I suspect that this is Jacob's doing, along with some of the more recent explosions and high profile deaths._

 _The Council is, of course, pleased with the news of dents to Templar power. But they are very concerned about the potential for chaos in London. There is a delicate balance at play, and too much disruption could prove fatal._

 _There is no sense in removing Templar control from London if there is no more London left._

 _I suspect that you are already trying to control your brother, but I implore you to redouble your efforts._

 _Let the Creed guide you._

 _G_ _._ _Westhouse_

* * *

Evie leaned against the tunnel wall, trying not to breathe the dank sewer smell in too deeply. Clara always insisted on meeting here- for security reasons, she said- although Evie was never entirely clear on who she was hiding from. Factory owners? Was there another rival gang of children?

Jacob had a much better handle on the political scene. Perhaps she should ask him. Maybe once they could speak without snapping each other. If that ever happened.

If only he could just acknowledge his wrongdoing in the Attaway situation. An apology would also be nice, Evie thought ruefully, but even an acknowledgement would do it at this stage.

He could such a stubborn, pigheaded, irritating little-

"Hullo, Evie," Clara called out cheerfully, interrupting Evie's thoughts. "Nice day out."

"How would we know from here?" Evie asked with a smile.

Clara smiled back and pulled a bundle of notes out of her dress pocket. "Your fees for the last few factories."

Evie took it reluctantly. "I know I've said this at least a dozen times, but I wish you wouldn't insist on us taking money."

"We work, so we can afford to do it." Clara shrugged. "And I don't like unpaid debts." She rummaged in her pockets again. "Here's a new list of the most recently reported workplaces," she said, passing the battered paper to Evie. Evie surveyed the list, her lip curling at the number of wealthy and highborn men whose factories were represented.

They turned back towards the tunnel entrance, their boots splashing in the sludge.

Evie looked towards the tiny figure trotting along beside her. "I may be busy over the next few months- I'm close to something I've been looking for. But you can always call on Jacob."

Even in the dark, she could see Clara wrinkle her nose. "I'd rather not."

"Oh?"

"He seems like an idiot."

Evie did her best not to laugh outright.

When she got back to the train, she went to the safe to deposit the wad of bills. She found Jacob standing, hands on hips, squinting at a newly mounted zebra head that had appeared on the wall. Their curtains had also apparently received an upgrade, along with the floors and a fourfold increase in tassels everywhere.

He shot her a confused look as she knelt down and entered the combination. "Do you think Agnes is trying to turn the train into a bordello?" He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Be on your guard if she starts inviting strange men aboard."

"We already have quite enough of those around," Evie muttered, closing the safe with a click.

* * *

Henry had offered to come along, but this was a confrontation that Evie knew she had to do alone.

When she was guided into St. John's chapel by an accomplice guard, she felt like the place was suspended in time. The air itself tasted stale and musty, as though it were as old as the building around it.

It made sense that this was where Lucy Thorne would centre her search, but stern in her usual purple and black lace embellishments, she could not have looked more out of place.

The name was appropriate, Evie thought bitterly. A thorn in the side of London.

"Welcome, Miss Frye. Do you care to tell me where the Shroud is?"

Evie spat on the floor by way of response.

"As you wish," Thorne sneered, a flush creeping up her cheeks. "I shall find it without your help. And then I will strangle you with it. Watch her closely," she instructed, before turning back to the altar.

First mistake, Evie thought, as she pushed a guard out of the way and easily ducked under Thorne's blow. Never turn your back on a Frye.

Second mistake, she thought, as Thorne's blow propelled her along and left her back widely exposed to Evie's blade. Never swing so widely in close combat. Second, and final, mistake.

Evie brought down her sword and stabbed through Thorne's back, pushing through bone and gristle until it emerged from her chest, blood spurting onto the floor. She braced her foot against Thorne's body and yanked her sword out as Thorne gasped and collapsed.

Thorne took a long time to die, thrashing on the ground. On principle, this was something that Evie avoided; quick and smooth deaths were preferable. This time, though, she was willing to make an exception.

Thorne had rolled onto her back and was saying something through gritted teeth. "You will never know the full extent of its power-"

"Tell me," Evie snapped, grabbing Thorne's chin. "Tell me then."

Thorne's eyes glossed over, the life deserting them for good.

Of course she couldn't be obliging, even in death. Evie sighed as she quickly daubed a handkerchief in Thorne's blood. That would've been too simple.

Lifting the key to the shroud from Thorne's body and quickly burying a throwing knife in a fake Beefeater's head, she began the scramble up to the Tower roof. She wouldn't be separated from the key so easily again.

* * *

The crow in the box was barely a surprise when it arrived from Roth. Jacob knew him well enough to expect that sort of thing now.

The guards in the theatre didn't phase him. When Roth started killing innocents, he was furious, but not surprised. Even when the theatre started to go up in flames, that still seemed like something that was par for the course when it came to Roth.

The kiss, though. The kiss was a surprise.

Even though it was ostensibly the same action, kissing Roth- or, perhaps, if Jacob was honest, being kissed by Roth- felt nothing like kissing Evie.

Evie was soft and tender, hesitant and almost shy. Their kisses were nearly always in the dark and always when they were alone. Secretive and skittish, it was something that only existed when there was nothing else competing for their attention.

Roth's kiss was the crazed and forceful movement of a dying man, scratchy and gin-tinged. It was in front of a crowd of screaming people and in the blaze of a theatre that was in the middle of burning to the ground. It was possessive and controlling and demanded his attention above everything else.

The two made quite a contrast.

Roth's kiss was shocking. Disgusting. Unsettling. But again, if Jacob were forced to be honest with himself, it was not these things because Roth was a man, no matter what everyone else would have assumed.

There had been a bubble of anticipation that always made itself present when Roth was around, and it easily could have grown into something much more intimate and potent. Maybe it already had.

No, it was horrifying because he had been nursing a growing respect for Roth and had been more than ready to believe that they were cut from the same cloth. No one wants to believe themselves similar to a monster; it had been like being doused with a bucket of cold water when Roth had proved more than willing to kill innocent children. It had opened Jacob's eyes to what he had been so desperately ignoring all along.

It was like waking up from a lovely dream that had turned into a nightmare.

Things could never just be _simple_. His life was dedicated to living in the shadows so he could plan and execute killings that should never be witnessed by the wider public. His dreams centred around proving himself to a man who was beyond seeing anything ever again, let alone anything that Jacob might do. He was in love with people he could never have and, when he could, probably shouldn't have.

It was that love which had led to here, Roth's corpse at his feet and burning rafters above him, screams of the playgoers still echoing in his ears. Any satisfaction at a successful kill was quelled by the distinct feeling that Roth had somehow, despite being dead, still gotten the better of him.

A wave of heat and the lick of flames on his legs reminded him that he had to get moving. "I'll never make it out alive," he muttered in lieu of a prayer, sprinting for the doors as one of the upper balconies collapsed.

He had to get out; he had to make things up with Evie. Kissing Roth couldn't be the last thing he ever did before he died.

Evie's train carriage door clicked open without warning. "You could knock," she said irritably, recognizing Jacob's footsteps. "it's the polite thin-" her words died in her throat as she turned.

He was a mess. His face was beginning to bruise and the edges of all of his clothes were burned. The smell of smoke filled the carriage, clogging her throat.

She stood slowly. "Jacob?" she asked in disbelief. She had never seen him like this- despite the risks that were his daily bread and butter, he almost always came through things without more than a nick or two. "What happened?"

He lurched towards her and collapsed onto her shoulder. He was shaking slightly.

"What happened?" she whispered again, trying to lean back and look at him. He wouldn't raise his face. "Are you all right?"

"Roth started killing innocents to get to me," he said, voice hoarse. "Then he set fire to the whole damned theatre."

Pouring some water into her wash basin and grabbing a cloth, she pushed him into her chair and started to wipe his face down. His trembling subsided as she worked the soft cotton over the blood and the dirt, cleaning his face and neck, his blackened and blistered hands, trying to wipe the soot out of his hair.

She stood to fetch bandages and tried to push away the image of Jacob's body, charred and mangled, lying in the wreckage of the Alhambra. "Did you get the bastard?"

There was a curious look on his face as he nodded.

"No loose ends?"

"No loose ends," he confirmed, sounding tired.

She rubbed salve into his palms and wrapped the cloth around his hands tightly, ignoring his wincing.

He cleared his throat and forced a half-smile. "You're no Nightingale."

"I'll keep that in mind if I feel like a career change," she muttered. She stood briskly and pulled him up to tug his burned clothes off. "Now, I'll get your things- you shouldn't be on the couch tonight."

He nodded numbly and waited while she fetched his nightshirt. Once he was settled and under the covers, she bundled up her nightdress and prepared to leave. But before she could go two steps, he grabbed her hand.

"Stay," he said quietly. "Please," he added, when he could see her hesitating.

They lay wrapped up in the narrow confines of her bed, his fingers twined in her hair, and she listened as his breath evened into sleep. Her heart thudded a little faster as she traced his chest with her fingers, thinking of how close he had come to not returning at all. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that this sort of danger was constantly snapping at their heels.

She pulled closer to him and nestled into his shoulder, taking care not to press on his bruises.

Maybe she could let the whole omnibus thing go, she thought, closing her eyes. At least for now.

* * *

London settled into stillness as winter crept in, seeping through windows and cracks under doors. Neither Rook nor Blighter wanted to press territory or start fights- it was simply too cold and miserable. Huddles of people stood around small fires in the streets, rubbing their hands together and praying that the damp and penetrating fog would relent for long enough that feeling would return to their toes.

For his part, Jacob felt content to consolidate power in the boroughs he already controlled; expansion could wait for now. He organized training routines for the Rooks, determined that when the time came, they would be better prepared than they were in the City. He stockpiled weapons from Wynert and set up shooting ranges in abandoned warehouses. He sent Rooks on sabotage missions and greased some palms to make sure that when the Blighters received replacements of lost cargo, they would be faulty at best. Most of all, he made sure that he was seen, a bright and sunny presence that everyone could rally around.

Even Evie succumbed to the quiet that had taken over the city. She had her key now, he knew, and she seemed content to wait on inspiration or new information, whichever might come first. Many an evening he would come back and find her hunched over a book, furiously taking notes and muttering to herself.

It was even too cold for them to fight. Her reaction to the Attaway situation still rankled, but without discussing the matter, they seemed to have agreed that the best course of action was ignore the whole thing.

It was almost like before they had come to London. That is, of course, except for the part where most of their nights were spent tangled up together. He pitied those who didn't have such a delicious way to stave off the cold.

Carollers were soon out in the streets, singing about joy and Christ in a manger. Visitors from all over the country descended on London to do their Christmas shopping and decorated trees emerged in the windows of rich neighbourhoods, candles winking through the glass by night. Jacob was a bit taken aback by all of this to begin with; Christmas in Crawley had always been a fairly subdued affair. Father hadn't had anything against the holiday but he wasn't exactly a celebrating man, and most of the community had been too poor to do anything showy.

On Christmas Day itself, Agnes was absent but organized the delivery of some turkey and trimmings for a hearty dinner. There had even been Christmas crackers, with paper crowns that they had both eagerly pulled on as fast as possible.

Full of good food and cheer, he and Evie were both enjoying mulled wine in front of the fire in her carriage when she pulled out a colourful wrapped box.

"For me?" Jacob said happily as she passed him the gift. "You shouldn't have."

"You would've sulked for the next year if I didn't."

"That's beside the point," Jacob said, tearing the bright wrapping paper aside. Inside the box lay two lethal looking brass knuckles, heavy and solid. "Oh Evie," he breathed dramatically, "how romantic. They're perfect. Dangerous and beautiful, just like you."

He fluttered his eyelashes at her and she aimed a half-hearted kick at his shin.

"No need for that," he said, laughing and putting the brass knuckles on. They slid on easily and felt reassuringly solid in his hands. "These are quite nice."

"They should be, after the money I paid."

"All right," he said, reaching behind the chair. "My turn."

She accepted the gift with a smile and started to undo the ribbon. "It's nothing horrible, is it? I still haven't forgiven you for the year when your gift was just a box of frogs."

He groaned. "As you remind me every year. I was eight and foolish- no amphibians this time. I promise."

She frowned as she lifted stiff fabric out of the box. "What… Is it?"

"It's a half-corset!" he crowed triumphantly.

"A what?"

"It's a corset, but only for- uh- for your-" he made an awkward groping motion.

She shot him a withering look. "You can say 'breasts', it won't kill you."

"I designed it myself," he said proudly, ignoring her. "I knew there had to be a better system than your bandages."

She looked at the garment, back at him, and then back at the garment once more. She slowly started to giggle.

"What?" he asked.

"Did you," she forced some composure, "go to a _shop_ for this? Did you actually go into a shop and ask the people behind the counter to make you _custom_ _women's underwear?_ " She dissolved into giggles again. "What did you do, draw them a diagram? Or did you," she imitated his earlier groping motion, " _mime_ it so they knew what you wanted?"

He drew himself up to his most dignified height. "They were very professional, I'll have you know." He hesitated. "Once… Once I told them it was for my wife and convinced them that this had been recommended by a doctor. And that my wife was so crippled that she couldn't come in and do this herself. It was very sad, really. She was hit by a runaway milk delivery wagon, and now, not only is she a cripple, she can't take tea because the sight of milk makes her burst into tears."

Evie snorted.

He put on his saddest face. "They were very sympathetic once I explained. One of the shop girls even got teary."

Evie was shaking her head but she couldn't hide her smile. "Do you even know my measurements?"

"There was a shop girl who I guessed was a similar size. I asked if I could confirm my guess," he made his groping motion again, "but for some reason they weren't too keen on that."

"How unreasonable of them."

"Quite. Will you try it on?"

She looked up at him through lidded eyes and her mouth curled into a smile that made his heart start to pound. "I might need some help."

"Good news- I know just the man for the job," he said, hopping out of his chair and leaning down to kiss her.

The half-corset fell to the floor as he pulled off her top, and it was soon hidden under a pile of clothing that followed. And there it would remain, entirely forgotten, until well past noon the next day.


	10. War

It was a beautiful day. Spring had arrived in full, bringing birdsong and warm winds. Flowers were beginning to bloom and even the rain was holding off, weak sunlight the order of the day.

And absolutely none of it was a consolation to Evie. She was perched at Agnes' desk and glaring at schematics of the city, trying to come to terms with the fact that she had been moments from obtaining the necessary maps of Buckingham Palace and it had been snatched from her fingers.

All because she had trusted Henry. That had worked out well.

She was still brooding over the map when Jacob returned, practically bouncing through the door. "That's that," he announced cheerfully, grabbing a pen and a pot of ink from over her shoulder. He walked to his assassination wall and slashed big X through Twopenny's face, stepping back to admire his handiwork.

He grinned at her. "Coming along, isn't it? Getting closer to the old bastard himself every day."

Evie looked uneasily at the other crossed out faces, each one having left a confused mess in the wake of their death. "You did it quietly, right?" she asked. "Subtly, maybe in his own house-"

"He was right in the middle of a heist of the central bank," Jacob said proudly, setting the pen down and pouring himself some tea. "The lousy git won't be robbing the people of London any more."

"You killed the head of the Bank of England while he was in the middle of robbing it," she repeated faintly. "Did anyone see you?"

"I don't know, his goons seemed a bit panicked. Freddy had the crowds above held back, though."

Crowds. There had been crowds. Crowds that needed to be held back, and by the police, no less. Evie felt her pulse begin to pound in her ears. "Jacob, if you've sent London into another panic -"

"Calm down," he said, settling into the couch to sip his tea. "It'll be fine."

Why were _all_ of the men in her life determined to be incompetent, she thought furiously, standing to grab her coat.

He looked up at her in surprise. "Leaving already?"

"Yes," she snapped, "to make sure that you haven't bankrupted the government or- or I don't even know, sent all of the gold reserve to the Boers somehow-"

He looked stung. "Beg your bloody pardon?"

"Why do I just know that the Bank is going to be in chaos when I get there?" As if losing the plans to Buckingham Palace wasn't enough for one day.

He set his tea down and stood angrily. "Now, hang on just a minute."

"I had better be wrong!" she snapped, stepping out and slamming the door.

* * *

 _Women_ , Jacob thought bitterly, rappelling down the side of Westminster Palace. Women would be the death of him.

Evie's reaction to his assassination of Twopenny had been like having a festering old wound ripped open. Things got worse when she came back from the bank, raging about devalued currency and missing banknotes and God only knows what else. It had devolved into a yelling match where she accused him of gross incompetence and he called her a shrew.

As well as a few other things. He wasn't proud of it.

It had been weeks since then, since they had spoken properly. They avoided each other in the day and ignored each other at night. If only she could just be a bit more _reasonable_ …

He stalked through the hallways of Parliament towards Lord Cardigan, dragging Templars into corners and quickly finishing them off with a blade in the spine. It felt like all of the women in his life were being impossible as of late.

Agnes was on a terrifying crusade to keep the train spotless, which meant she had repeatedly torn into him for forgetting to clean his boots before coming in. Failure meant she would advance, wielding her mop like a weapon, chasing him off while she let out streams of terrifying curses in Gaelic. It was _his train_ ; couldn't he even track in a little mud?

He found the right door and knocked. "Password?" a voice called from the inside.

"Balaclava," Jacob muttered. Even Clara was constantly giving him lip. He was saving the children under her protection, for God's sake. Or, well, Evie was doing most of that. But they were a team, he and Evie- weren't they?

The door swung open and he quickly dispatched the Templar in the room, locking himself in to ensure privacy. He stood back and waited while Lord Cardigan fussed at the desk, oblivious to what was happening.

He and Evie were supposed to be a team, yes, but lately he felt more like a lackey. A lackey who couldn't even be trusted, apparently.

The thought set him back at the start of the whole internal rant again, just as Lord Cardigan turned around and jumped. "What in the world, who the devil are _you_ and how dare you-"

"Oh, shut _up_ ," Jacob said, irritably slashing the man's throat.

He took forever to go. Ranting on and on about his own importance, something about glory, Queen and Country, war, blah blah. Lord Cardigan, sure, more like Lord _Fart_ igan. Tosser.

Jacob glanced at the clock when the man finally stilled on the ground and groaned internally. Evie had yelled after him about wanting to meet for a planning something-or-other as he left earlier in the day, and there was no way he was going to be back by the time she had specified.

His scowl deepened. You know what, he thought as he dipped a handkerchief into Cardigan's blood, he wasn't going to rush. Maybe, God forbid, things wouldn't always go exactly the way she wanted and she would just have to wait.

It was high time she stopped just assuming he would always do her bidding. He was a gang leader, damn it all, not a prize poodle.

* * *

It was as bad as he'd suspected; Evie didn't even greet him before snapping at him. "You're late. Starrick is making his move – the Piece of Eden is inside Buckingham palace."

He shook his head and shrugged. "Let him have it."

She blinked at him, stunned. "I've seen your handiwork across the city," she said, growing more heated. "Perhaps you should trust my judgement."

He turned around slowly to face her, daring her to keep going. "I've been killing Starrick's henchmen. What have you been doing? Let's ask Henry, shall we?"

Henry looked distinctly like he didn't want to get involved. Smart man.

"I have been repairing your mistakes," she said, the same retort as always, her voice a low hiss. "Too much haste is too little speed."

"Don't you quote Father at me," he snarled. Of course she would always bring it back to that-

"That's Plato! And I'm sorry that this doesn't involve anything you can destroy." She strode towards him. "Father was _right_ , he never approved of your methods-"

"Father is dead!" he roared, jerking towards her furiously.

Henry finally decided to intervene, throwing an arm out to draw their attention. "Enough! I have received word from my spies. At the palace ball tonight, Starrick plans to steal the Piece of Eden, and then eliminate all the heads of church and state."

Jacob's heart thumped loudly in his ears, his hands shaking with adrenaline. He steeled himself and forced a grin. "One last time for old time's sake?"

"And then we're finished," she whispered.

"Agreed. So what's the plan?"

* * *

Evie resentfully eyed the Gladstones' carriage as it trundled around the corner. Of course Jacob would arrive in that. Anything to maximize their chance of getting caught. Of course.

The carriage rolled to a stop and Jacob hopped out, looking strangely shorter without his hat. Sergeant Abberline dismounted from the carriage as well, in full Buckingham Guard regalia and looking supremely uncomfortable. She briefly considered telling him that Jacob had that effect on everyone.

"Hand him your weapons," Jacob said, gesturing to the Sergeant. "We must enter unarmed."

The ride to the palace was tense, neither of them speaking. Evie felt her chest constrict when they pulled up to the gates, but they were waved through without incident.

The noises of the party started to become audible as they pulled up to the front of the palace. Jacob suddenly tensed, craning his head around. "Did I hear something?"

"No," she sighed, "just the voices in your own head."

He hopped out of the carriage without a backwards glance or helping hand. "And yet, they're so much more pleasant than yours."

"Charming."

He straightened the gloves on his hands as smirked. "Aren't I?"

"I shall go and find the Piece of Eden."

"As you wish. I'm off to go and find Freddy," he said, striding away.

Resisting the urge to make a rude gesture entirely inappropriate for a lady, she moved into the party.

* * *

Jacob found Freddy on the roof. Thank God for his weapons, he thought, quickly putting them back on and perching his beloved hat on his head. Perfect. Time to kick some Templar ass.

Freddy looked serious. He often looked serious, but Jacob assumed the effect had more impact this time because Freddy wasn't dressed like a whiskered old woman. "Starrick peppered the regulars with his own men and took several guards hostage. Look," he said, gesturing towards the shooters lining the roof.

"Right. I'll kill the imposters and rescue the captives," Jacob said confidently.

"How? It's impossible to tell the difference."

"Oh ye of little faith!" he yelled over his shoulder.

Freddy did not look reassured.

Which was, of course, ridiculous, Jacob thought as he sailed through the air above the courtyard, evening wind rushing through his ears. Politics and leadership, finance and cleanup, those were all a bit out of his forte. But this? This was child's play.

His blood was singing by the time he had dealt with a dozen fake guards, each one crumpling with a satisfying thump. The snipers had been positioned strategically, presumably to fire on the guests. The populace of England saved once more, he thought proudly, resisting the urge to thump his chest a few times.

He squinted at the garden from the rooftops, looking for Evie. There she was, in the centre and dancing, which was a bit unexpected- hold on, he thought, is that _Starrick?_

And so it was, gracefully turning back and forth with his sister.

Almost as if she could sense Jacob's gaze, Evie's neck craned upwards suddenly, looking towards the rooftops of the palace. He gave a quick wave, knowing that she would understand. All under control here.

As he lingered for a moment, Evie suddenly raised her foot and kicked Starrick viciously in the shin. Ah yes, now _that_ was more like Evie. His own leg winced involuntarily in response, a lingering muscle memory of far too many kicks dealt by her out in the past.

He quickly shimmied down the side of the building, trying to stay out of sight. When he found her, she threw some papers into his hands. "Here. The location of the vault. Go!"

He grinned, rather liking this sudden turn of events. "Just like that? No plan?"

"No time for plans, I'll catch up as soon as I'm rid of this infernal contraption."

Pity, he thought half-heartedly, as he sprinted off in the direction that she indicated. He hadn't planned on mentioning it, but he'd rather liked that infernal contraption.

* * *

There was a haze of red and a crowd gathering near the forest where she had directed Jacob.

Swiftly pushing Blighters aside and sliding down into the darkness, Evie hurried along the hallway, praying that Starrick had somehow been delayed, that Jacob had succeeded, that disaster had been averted-

Time slowed to a crawl as she fell into the cavernous space and saw Starrick, holding Jacob by the throat, Jacob's twitches slowly becoming feebler.

 _No no not Jacob no you can't noJacobnotJacobnonono-_

She lunged at Starrick with a scream, drawing her blade. Starrick threw Jacob aside like he was a rag doll, his face contorted into a maniacal grin.

It should've frightened her, but she was beyond being frightened; she was rage incarnate. Jacob could not die. He was a moronic, childish, irritating git with surprisingly gentle eyes and a laugh that made her skin melt like butter and he was _hers_ and he could not die, not now, not like this, not when they were still fighting, not at the hands of this monster-

She parried, knocking Starrick's arm aside, and plunged her blade into his heart. She felt the briefest flicker of triumph before it turned to horror as the wound immediately healed. _Healing Shroud_ , of course, so the original sources had been quite literal-

That was bad, she thought, very bad, as Starrick's hand gripped her throat and she felt her feet leave the ground.

* * *

When Jacob came to, he briefly couldn't remember where he was. Why had he blacked out? His neck hurt like a son of a bitch-

His vision sharply narrowed on Evie, feet dangling, her face turning red as Starrick held her aloft.

"Hang on," he yelled desperately, scrambling to his feet, dodging the curtains of whatever witchcraft the Shroud was projecting. "Hang on, Evie, I'm coming!"

The bloodlust was back. This wasn't like Roth, with the risk of lingering regret; it wasn't an irritating side mission where things could go awry; there was too much riding on this and the thrill of death was nipping at their heels. The roaring in his ears made it somehow easier to focus.

Starrick tossed Evie aside – please, Jacob thought desperately, she was made of stern stuff, please let her rally – and he dove in without hesitation.

Two quick punches and he had stabbed Starrick again, though it still didn't seem to be doing much good. Jacob felt his face twist into a sneer, aiming again- just _die_ already, you stupid bastard-

He saw Evie charge at Starrick and he joined her, the two of them lunging as Starrick grabbed both of them, one in each hand, lifting them off the ground.

Not ideal, Jacob mused, eying Evie out of the corner of his eye. At the very least he had hoped he would be able to stop her from dying. He could feel his breaths becoming shorter again and he resisted the strange and sudden urge to grin, remembering how Roth had gone.

He wondered briefly if Starrick be surprised if he used the same strategy to welcome death.

* * *

Evie had almost succumbed to the darkness clouding the edge of her vision when Starrick suddenly howled, dropping both of them. She scrambled backwards, trying to understand, as a blur of white fabric flew at Starrick and revealed itself to be one extremely furious Henry Green.

He had saved them, she realized, before he was also thrown back. She sent a brief prayer that he would be all right before charging at Starrick yet again, summoning her strength.

Starrick was growing weaker, she could see now. It would only be a few more good stabs and he might even go for good.

* * *

"Jacob!" he heard her yell.

Starrick was faltering, and she was braced a foot away, looking towards him intently. He scrambled towards both of them, using the gap to stab Starrick again. "Evie, now," he shouted, giving her time to lunge and swipe the shroud off of Starrick, wounding his shoulder in the process.

They flipped Starrick over the granite slab, working together, and he couldn't help but feel like they were back in training with Father in front of them- parry, parry, dodge, now stab. They had always been stronger as a team.

Starrick shrivelled in front of them, mere mortal and man once more.

"Shall we?" she asked, her feral smile back in place.

He allowed himself the briefest of gloating pauses. "Let's."

"Together!" she yelled, as they sliced into Starrick like so much rotten meat.

 _Requiescat in pace,_ you piece of shit.

And there it was, with Starrick's body lying on the floor, a mangled shell of his former self: everything that Jacob had fought for since arriving in London, everything he had wanted to prove, to Father, to the city, to the Council. And they had done it together.

He looked at her, so beautiful and terrifying, standing with Starrick's blood on her blade. God, he wanted her. All of the anger about her behaviour felt washed away in the heat of the battle; maybe that was just what he'd needed. It had been so long since he'd felt that smooth satisfaction of them working together.

"Shame we won't be partners any more," he said hesitantly.

It was easy to fall into joking, to discuss the shroud, to try and apologize. A lump worked a way into his throat as he finally got to what was really important. "I've missed you."

And he had. He'd missed working _with_ her instead of being ships passing in the night.

"Me too," she said, and he felt a great weight lift off his shoulders. She looked hesitant. "Would it be possible to continue where we left off?"

"I'd like nothing more."

It was so satisfying that he didn't even feel the urge to throttle Greenie when he kissed Evie. Let the man have his small reward, Jacob thought dismissively, surveying his own success. He knew what 'continuing where we left off' meant.

He would have later.

* * *

It was well past midnight by the time they returned to the train, the air crisp and cool. They had walked in a companionable silence across the rooftops of London, back from Henry's shop. Evie had made sure that Henry was bandaged and sleeping before leaving.

She would decide what to make of the kiss later, she knew. For now, it was enough to enjoy Jacob's company again, to appreciate the easy quiet after so much time spent fighting.

Back on the train, she went directly to the assassination board and grabbed a quill and ink, drawing a steady "X" over Starrick's photo. Jacob watched, a glint in his eye as he lit a lamp.

She felt like she was alive right down to the edges of her fingertips. She turned to lock eyes with him, a shiver running down her spine. "We did it," she breathed, triumph infused in every word.

"We did it," he repeated, a little louder, a grin starting.

"We did it," she said again, "we did it, we did it, _we did it_ -"

He joined in the chant, reaching towards her as they nearly jumped up and down in unison, " _we did it, we did it, we did it, we di_ -"

The ink bottle fell from her hands and splattered on the carpet as he bodily lifted her and spun her around, jubilant, until he slowed to a stop and she was looking down at him, his eyes dark and focused and his features thrown into shadow by the solitary lamp of the carriage.

"Together," she whispered.

His kiss was possessive and demanding, his fingers digging tightly into her waist. "I knew we would," he rumbled when he finally broke away. His lips quirked into a smile, the kind that he saved for when he was feeling most confident.

She traced his face with her fingers and smiled back. "Indeed."

It was a little bit of a lie, of course, there was a time somewhere around the bank and the transport system and the government when she hadn't been sure, but now was hardly the time for that.

He kissed her again and deposited her on the desk, kicking the chair out of the way. She realized that his fingers were working down her front, undoing her vest and the shirt underneath. "You wear too many clothes," he murmured, smiling against her mouth as she tugged off her gauntlet, helping him to pull her out of her sleeves.

She chose not to answer, instead helping him out of his own coat and shirt, nearly ripping a few of the buttons off in the process. He had his fingers hooked on her waistband, the callouses on his hands brushing her waist roughly. She wriggled her hips off the desk and knocked a pile of charts and books to the ground with a thump.

"Messy, messy," he chuckled as her boots and trousers joined the heap on the floor.

"As if you've ever cared." She stretched her arms above her head, enjoying the way his breath hitched in his throat as she reached backwards and untied the ribbon of the half corset, letting the whole thing fall away.

"Evie," he breathed, almost a benediction, before he brought his face down and began to move his tongue against her breast, his fingers drifting between her legs.

With more presence of mind, she might have felt embarrassed that she was already desperate, wet and ready. But she was far beyond that, a creature only of need and heady anticipation, her mind full of his smell and his touch. It had been too long since they had been together this way and her body remembered it all too well. He didn't tease her this time, pushing straight into her and curving his fingers until she was keening, sending more books to the floor as she tipped her head back against the desk.

He knelt and worked up her thigh with kisses, pulling his fingers out so he could lap at her insistently, ripping louder cries from her throat. She curled her fingers in his hair as he moved upwards, pleasure arcing through her body. Time became meaningless as she twisted, his fingers digging into her hips so tightly that she was sure he would leave bruises, his beard rasping against her thighs, until she was screaming and desire was ripping through her body and the world was white and he was everything she would ever need.

Breathing deeply, she yanked him upwards, grinding her hips against him as he moaned into her neck. She fumbled with his belt, pulling it open and pushing his trousers and pants down in one movement. He kicked out of his boots and the rest of his clothes followed in a flash, the fabric joining her discarded garments on the floor.

He was beautiful. All rough edges, all strength, all desperation, and most of all - all hers.

Moaning, she batted his hands away when he tried to put them between her legs again. Instead, she pulled him closer, wrapping her legs around his waist and pushing the tip of his length to her wetness, wiggling him close.

He suddenly pushed her back, panting. "Is this," he said, watching her face, "I mean, are you…"

"Yes," she breathed. She was ready. He had waited, as he always waited, for her to make the first move and there had always been that hesitation, that sense of no return that held her back.

But they were here- she was alive, he was alive, and they owned London. She was ready.

"Are you sure," he rasped, looking at her intently. His whole face was serious, brow furrowed and eyes dark. "I need to know you're sure."

She was sure that she was going to start hitting something if he didn't let her keep going. "Yes," she said, "yes, I'm ready, come on-"

"No," he put a hand against her shoulder, holding her back.

Her mouth fell open.

"No, I mean-" he was starting to blush. "I don't mean _no_ , I would love to, have always wan- fuck. I mean, that is, not _here_."

She still didn't know what he meant. He reached out and cupped her behind, lifting her away from the desk, easily scooping her up with her legs wrapped around him. He shuffled awkwardly to the couch, his feet kicking away bits of discarded clothes, until he was able to sit and settle her down splayed across his lap.

Ah, now she understood. This way she would be able to control what happened- he wouldn't accidentally hurt her.

His eyes were boring into hers, uncertain and waiting for her approval. When it really mattered, she thought indulgently, he did know how to pay attention to her needs. She kissed him by way of thanks and reached down to grasp him, feeling his fingers tighten on her arms as she rubbed gently.

Opposite sides of the same coin. The sun to her moon, her pair in every way. It was only right, she told herself, that they would be together. His eyes held such longing and love that she had to suppress a lump in her throat.

She was ready.

Taking a deep breath and trying to relax as much as possible, she kept her eyes locked on his as she pushed her hips down.

* * *

Oh, God.

Was there ever a man as lucky as he was? He didn't think so.

She had been a vision in that ridiculous pile of lace and silk, even if he'd been too angry to tell her or properly acknowledge it. She was magnificent and ferocious fighting Starrick, an avenging angel of death. His equal in every way. His superior in some ways, if he was honest.

And now here she was, in his arms, beautiful, her features thrown in shadow, her body wiry and strong and feminine and perfect all at once.

He had waited for this since that moment on the darkest of nights when he'd realized he wanted her in that way. The thought of it had carried him through so many lonely evenings, and though he knew he would never push for fear of her running away, as they had become closer he had never stopped hoping…

He had almost worried that it wouldn't be as good as he'd hoped. He needn't have worried.

She felt _incredible_.

Her eyes were huge, focused on a point over his shoulder, her brow slightly creased. He reached up to cup her cheek, trying to gauge her reaction. "Does it hurt?"

"It's not-" she shifted slightly and he felt his body jerk with pleasure. "It's uncomfortable, but, I think-" she shifted again and her eyelashes fluttered, her breath quickening. "It feels good too."

God, yes, did it ever. So _this_ was what the big fuss was all about, he managed to think, moments before she gently rocked her hips properly and his mind became an incoherent mess of want and Evie and the smell of her, of sweat and sweet scented soap and leather polish, of the sounds she was making as she wrapped her arms around his neck and started to move-

"Uh, Evie," he managed, "you, uh, can you, er-"

She stilled immediately. Her hands flew to his face and she was looking at him with concern, which he couldn't make any sense of. "Are you all right? I know it's supposed to be a little painful for women but I didn't think-"

"No no no," he managed, trying reassure her and not laugh and take deep breaths and calm down all at once. He felt like his bones might melt from pleasure, pain was not the problem. "Not painful, in fact it's- it's- rather the opposite in that, uh, if you don't give me a moment here, this might be a, well, a brief experience."

She blinked at him before she threw her head back and laughed, exposing the long white lines of her throat. Ah, yes, he thought a bit ruefully. Always sensitive to a man's insecurities, my sister. He was trying think of something cutting and witty to say when her smile turned wicked. "I don't mind," she said, beginning to move again.

Oh _fuck_ , he thought, watching as her breasts started to bounce in front of him, transfixed on the sight of her bobbing up and down and the incredible feel of it, oh fucking hell and God and damn and fuck and one hundred, ninety-seven, _fuck_ , ninety- uh- ninety-three? No, damn, that wasn't right, ninety-uh- fuckfuck _fuck_ -

She groaned again and his mind went white as she bucked and her fingers wound in his hair, twisting and pulling lightly. She felt so tight and hot and wet and God and _fuck_ , he had been trying to keep still, trying to make sure he didn't hurt her, but it felt so good that involuntarily started to move, lifting his hips to meet hers in uncoordinated jerks.

She didn't seem to mind.

Wrapping his arms around her and grasping her tightly, he bit down onto her shoulder as her noises grew more insistent and breathy, her fingers skating down his back. Her hair was coming loose from their tight braids, wisps curling down her face and swaying back and forth as she moved. She was so soft, somehow so soft even though he could feel the cords of muscle that were all through her body and the scars that traced past hurts on her skin.

"Jacob," she choked out, "don't- you dare- stop-"

He pulled her chin so he could look at her and her pupils were blown wide, her face flushed underneath every freckle, her lips quivering against little gasps. She kissed him and he let her, groaning, feeling the orgasm building- it was so quick but she had said not to stop, so that meant he shouldn't stop, he thought, right, that meant it- should he- shit- _fuck_ -

She bit down on his lower lip and he suddenly lurched, the world exploding as he let a strangled yell out against her mouth. She held him as he finished, not breaking the kiss, her hands tightly framing his face until he slumped backwards, panting, and she released him with a smile.

They lay there for a moment, sweaty and dishevelled, the world and distant noises of London slowly coming back. Pushing away from him, she climbed off his lap and collapsed beside him. "Wow," she breathed.

"Wow," he agreed, wanting to laugh and kiss her and sleep. Mostly sleep, if he was honest. The urge was overpowering, his entire mind and body wanting to fall sideways against the couch so he could curl up and drift off.

That is, until her fingers drifted across the hair at the bottom of his stomach. He looked up to find her grinning at him.

He gulped and she laughed, leaning in to kiss to his forehead. "How soon do you think we can do that again?"

He pushed her away with a half-hearted theatrical groan, face sliding into a grin as she started to pout. Relenting, he pulled her back, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his lips to her neck. "There's no rush, remember?"

"No?"

"London is ours. We have all the time in the world."


	11. Peace

People stepped aside for Jacob now.

Especially in Whitechapel, where he was the closest thing that existed to the law, crowds parted for him like the sea before Moses. Hats were tipped at him, cheerful voices calling out from doorways in greeting. Rooks met him with friendly laughter and a measure of respect. Girls smiled at him constantly.

A year ago, the heady and intoxicating mix and approval of power would have left Jacob feeling like he was on top of the world.

Now, he found that it sobered him.

Oh, he grinned and waved back, and he liked the attention. There was no question of that. He had always liked being the centre of attention. He dutifully met the people who sought him out and tried to act as he felt he should: arbitrating between disputes, accepting pleas for help, overseeing the imposition of order where there had been none before.

And there were lots of late nights at pubs with the Rooks. That was as natural as breathing.

But it was hard for him to treat his leadership as a success when he walked by the field where fallen Rooks were buried, names and bodies of men and women- almost always pathetically young- who had given up everything so that he would enjoy this privilege.

He made himself walk by that field. He had seen what unbridled power did to Roth and Starrick, and he worried that it would be all too easy for him to go down that path.

Roth's and Starrick's toxic presence still lingered in London in the form of their followers, even if the men themselves were gone. Granted, they were dramatically reduced in number; when Starrick's fall became public knowledge, most of the Blighters scattered like dandelion snow in the wind. The organization was rudderless without a leader, unable to sustain any kind of centralized focus.

But that still left a core group of loyalists in Westminster. They were the last boil to be lanced before the organization was gone, he hoped for good.

Greenie helped him prepare the Rooks for this last conquering fight. "Do not underestimate them," he advised, gesturing to the map where they had placed a few pins in locations for potential gang wars. "They are small in number but they were the fiercest of Starrick's supporters. They have nothing to lose now."

A year ago, Jacob would have shrugged off this advice.

A year ago, he didn't have a dedicated fund set aside for Rooks funeral costs.

"You're probably right," he conceded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Evie's head pop up from her book in surprise. "Would you advise anything?"

"An exit strategy," Greenie said quietly. "I know it goes against your nature to even consider leaving a fight, but it may be wise in this case."

Greenie was right. He didn't like it. But maybe, like Evie had always implied, this role entailed doing his fair share of things that he didn't like.

"I'll make sure that's an option," he agreed. Greenie looked pleased. Evie's mouth opened in a perfect circle of surprise.

When Greenie left to return to his shop, she lowered her book. "Did I just hear you agree to make an actual _plan,_ dear brother? Am I dreaming?"

"You've worn me down," he groaned dramatically. "My spirit is broken."

She smirked at him. "I knew you would see sense in the end."

"Don't tempt me to change my mind."

"You wouldn't dare, now that you're the responsible leader of London."

He groaned again and rubbed his face. "I need a drink."

* * *

Even with Blighters demolished, the Templars were trying to retain a foothold in London. Evie would receive periodic reports from Henry of new arrivals, agents sent from foreign headquarters to try and salvage Starrick's destroyed network.

The newest was a gentleman from Edinburgh, recently arrived and established in a house near the Strand. Presumably, he assumed that the nicer neighbourhood and police presence made him safe.

He was, of course, wrong.

Evie picked the lock to an upper window while Jacob kept watch over the street. She knew that he had organized a distraction that would keep the police busy, and she had gone to the trouble of obtaining plans for the house so there would be no surprises.

She slipped into the window and landed in what looked like a private library, the thick carpet muffling the sound of her feet. Jacob rolled in behind her, dusting imaginary dust off of his lapels. "Nice place," he said approvingly, wandering over to a fully stocked tray of spirits.

Evie suppressed an eye roll and gestured towards the door. "McFayden should be asleep. He's a relatively small player in the grand scheme of things, so I suspect he won't have very heavy security. Keep watch on the door?"

"Done," he replied, swirling a glass of dark liquid with a smile and already clearly not paying attention. "This is a seriously top-notch whiskey, Evie, you should try it."

"Perhaps another time", she muttered, slipping out into the hallway.

McFayden was tucked up in bed where she expected he would be, and she looked him over as he slept. She couldn't help but feel a bit of professional disapproval. The lack of guards at the door was seriously sloppy; no wonder he hadn't been called to London before.

As she produced her hidden blade, there was a sudden unearthly yowling and the sound of shattering glass from next door.

McFayden's eyes flew open and widened for a fraction of a second as he saw her. She hissed and pushed the knife into his neck, holding a hand over his mouth so that he wouldn't alert the entire household.

As he took his lasts breaths, more glass broke next door. She could hear muffled swearing.

She yanked her blade out and ran towards the sound, blinking for a moment when she found the hallway and adjoining room empty. As her eyes adjusted, she realized that the room wasn't empty- there was just no one at eye level.

Jacob was on the floor, swinging his arms frantically as a small ball of calico fur hissed and scratched at his face. Disbelieving, Evie lunged and yanked the cat off him.

"Out the window!" she hissed at him, pointing to where they had entered. Jacob lumbered to his feet and clambered out awkwardly, trying brush cat hair off himself and push up the building at once. She followed on his heels, the sound of a disturbed household growing louder from below.

It wasn't until they were almost a neighbourhood away that they relaxed, slowing down on a rooftop to catch their breath.

"I'm sorry-" he started, but she put her hand up. Looking at him in the moonlight, now, she could see that he had a series of scratches across his face, red and angry. "It flew at me," he said helplessly. "I don't even know where it came from or what I did."

She couldn't help it. She started to laugh. "Honestly, what is it about you?"

"It isn't funny! I'm a master assassin, I shouldn't be bested by a _cat!_ "

That just made her laugh harder. He managed to pout for about three seconds before he started to laugh as well, sheepishly hunching over. "I should've kicked it away but I couldn't bring myself to hit something so much smaller than me. Thank God that no one saw that."

"I saw it."

He pulled her in for a kiss. "I know my secrets are safe with you."

* * *

Sometimes they were sweet and loving. Jacob didn't mind that, especially when they were crowded in the narrow confines of Evie's bed, where hushed kisses and soft embraces seemed like the appropriate thing.

Those were the moments when it was like being back to discovering each other, when everything was still frightening and they were trying to negotiate this new and strange understanding of themselves. They had lived in that territory for a long time, trying to balance it with the increasingly tense terrain of the rest of their lives.

Bursting through that wall had been like letting off a pile of fireworks. Success had made them bolder and braver. Practice made him more confident, her more relaxed.

They learned to love roughly, to demand. It meant late nights in dark corners of alleyways where they wouldn't be recognized, fingers shoved in trousers and bites on shoulders. It meant carriages with locked doors when it became too unbearable to wait for night, balanced on each other with practiced thrusts and hands over mouths to muffle their sounds. It meant long-abandoned offices in empty warehouses after target practice, tempers running high and passion running higher, her arms braced against brick walls and his hand tangled in her hair.

Jacob usually didn't stop to think about it too carefully. But when he did, it made nothing but perfect sense to him. Every part of their lives were woven with violence. He knew it. She knew it. It had always been so, since Grandmother had taken them in hand and delivered them to Father when they were six, two solemn children staring up at the larger man with big eyes.

It made no sense to always treat each other gingerly and softly in bed and then freely kick each other to pulp in the practice ring. This was their life, for better or for worse.

He didn't need to prove himself to Father any more. He didn't need to prove himself to her any more. This was who he was, and this is how he loved, and she accepted that.

It only made him want her more.

* * *

"No, no," Evie corrected gently, folding Clara's hand into hers and tracing the letter again. "The circle curves to the right if it's a 'q', but it curves to the left if it's a 'g', like so."

"I used to be able to do this," Clara said glumly.

"And you will do it again." Evie took her hand away and gestured at the paper. "It just takes practice. Now, once more."

Most of the street children couldn't read. Evie couldn't help all of them, even though she sometimes wished she could. She had convinced Jacob to use Rooks funds to hire a teacher to visit a local church in Whitechapel twice a week; children would crowd into the pews by the dozens and watch as he traced out letters on slate.

Clara, though, had a foundation in reading from being raised with a rich family, even if she had only gained her learning by secretly listening in on lessons. She was bright and she had potential. Even if Evie couldn't help all of the children, she could help Clara.

Clara frowned and gripped the quill, tracing out the letters slowly. " _In… the… beginning_ … Do you think I'll ever be able to read harder books?"

"Of course," Evie agreed. "We can start as soon as you'd like."

"My Ma used to want to be able to read," Clara said quietly.

Evie had never asked, but it would be a lie if she said she wasn't curious. "Clara," she started gently, "what happened to your mother?"

Clara kept her focus on the letters, her small face scrunched in concentration. "She passed when I was ten."

"I'm sorry," Evie replied, almost automatically.

"Don't be sorry. She had already been gone for almost a year."

Evie frowned at the small figure in front of her. "What do you mean?"

"She couldn't get out of bed. She barely ate. She was there, but she wasn't there, not really. When she stopped breathing, it was just her body following the rest of her."

The matter-of-fact way it was stated made Evie's chest constrict a little. "I'm sorry," she said again, aware of how inadequate it was as a response.

Clara finished a word with a flourish and turned to Evie seriously. "It was never the same after Pa left. He filled her belly with babe after babe, and then ran off when he couldn't face another child. And without him, neither could she." She went back to the page and started the line again. "No one should have a babe they can't welcome. I'm never getting married."

If the statement had come from any other eleven-year-old, Evie might have smiled. Delivered by Clara with a chilling calmness, it didn't inspire mirth.

"After she died," Clara continued, "it was just me looking after my brothers and sister. The world abandoned us too. It's always the same with the children who come to me. Too many babes, too many mothers who didn't want them, too many fathers who abandoned them. So I won't. I will never abandon them."

"A noble cause," Evie said softly.

"But I can do that better if I can read. I've been having someone else write my letters for me, but I want to do it myself." Her brow furrowed in frustration as she finished the line again. "There, does that look better?"

Evie leaned over with a discerning eye. _In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth_. Clara's print was precise and only a little bit hesitant; with some practice, she would be proficient in no time at all.

"It looks very good. Once more, and this time, try to write at least three words without lifting your pen from the page."

Clara started obediently. "I'm glad that you came to London."

Evie resisted the urge to wrap the girl in a hug. "I am too."

* * *

Jacob chewed on the nib of the quill and stared at the ledger with a frown. He had done the sums at least three times, but the total still wasn't adding up the way it ought to.

Salaries, uniforms, weapons, ammunition, bribes… He scrolled his finger down the expenses side to make sure that everything was correct. It looked right. Pubs, races, protection, smuggling, arrests…The income side looked right as well.

He ran both of his hands through his hair with a frustrated groan. Someone should have mentioned that gang leading involved so much desk work.

There was always the option of hiring someone, but the stubborn side of him felt like that would be admitting defeat. The petulant child in his head would stomp his foot, wailing that he _could_ do this, he _could_ , and anyone who said he couldn't was _wrong_.

He reasoned that he had managed this well enough when the gang had thirty members, so surely he could keep it up even though they now had… At least ten times that number, if informants were included.

"Problems?" Evie's voice floated from the end of the carriage.

He scrambled to cover the ledger with his arms, rattling his tea cup in the process. "What? Problems? No! Everything tickety-boo here, no problems at all-"

She leaned over his shoulder and pushed his arms aside. He squirmed as she eyed the ledger and his scribbled sums critically, waiting for the judgemental comment and something about how he ought to have paid more attention during their lessons growing up.

He probably _should_ have paid more attention, of course, but that was beside the point.

Instead, she just pointed at a step halfway through his calculations. "You didn't carry the one here."

"What?" He followed her pointing. Aware of her small smile, he corrected it and redid the sums as she watched.

He wasn't sure if he was more irritated or relieved when everything came out properly this time.

She gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "You'll get the swing of this, I promise."

"I liked it better when you just made fun."

"Fine. You're an idiot and you can't do maths."

He slouched forward in his seat and folded the ledger shut. "All right, it turns out I don't like that either." Trying to regain some of his dignity, he straightened and faced her seriously. "Besides, I was making that mistake on purpose. I wanted to see if you'd catch it. The good news is you passed. Well done, sister mine."

She nodded solemnly. And then she laughed at him to his face.

* * *

"Miss Evie?" Henry's voice called through the door. "Are you there?"

She and Jacob froze to stone, barely daring to breathe.

She was almost completely undressed, her shirt tucked up around her shoulders, Jacob crouched over her in just his trousers. He looked almost comical, his hand on his belt, his mouth hovering over her breast. Only his eyes moved, flickering between her and the door.

Her mind slowly creaked into action and she found her voice, raising it so Henry could hear, hating how it came out with a bit of a squeak. "Sorry, Henry, I'm not decent at the moment. Do you need something?"

She could hear his embarrassment. "I apologize for bothering you- I am actually looking for Jacob, do you know where he might be?"

Jacob's head shot up and he met her eyes with a flicker of panic. She cleared her throat and looked away to yell back. "Sorry, no, I've no idea. Try the local pubs? I'm sure he's passed out in a hay bale somewhere."

Jacob shot her a filthy look.

"I see. Thank you anyway," Henry yelled.

They both stayed frozen until they heard him step away from the train, the door swinging shut as the train chugged into movement once more.

She finally relaxed back into the pillows. "That was too close."

"Good thing he knocks," Jacob said. "If he were more like me, we'd all be having a _very_ awkward conversation right now."

She twisted her face. "I'm trying to imagine two of you in the world. It's not good."

He chuckled and lowered his face, kissing her breast gently before suddenly scraping tender skin with his teeth. She tutted and made to push him away. "Don't you think this is maybe a sign that we should stop being reckless in the middle of the day?"

"You make it sound like I bullied you into this," he replied, sliding his fingers between her legs and smirking at her choked noise.

"You make me do things that are against my better judgement."

He pulled his trousers off and climbed back over her. "Well," he chuckled, sending a shiver up her skin and a rush of warmth to her hips. "Let me see if I can convince you into one more thing."

"Are you laughing at me?"

"Maybe."

"Just make sure you use a sheath," she grumbled. Even when I try to sound annoyed, she thought helplessly, I just end up sounding coy. How does he do it?

* * *

Wanting to spend time with Evie meant that Jacob was training more than he had in years. She prioritized it, and accordingly, he tagged along. It was a far cry from a drink at the pub, but it got their blood up, and he tended to like where that went.

They met in the cavernous space of an empty warehouse, a burned out shell after a mysterious fire had hollowed it out earlier in the year. Equally mysteriously, the old owner had disappeared the same night, leaving his affairs in disarray. While lawyers and family tried to arrange his estate and decide what to do with the property, unbeknownst to them, it had been quietly converted into a target practice ground.

She was in fine form, Jacob observed proudly. The hanging wooden panels cracked backwards as she threw her knives, each one landing squarely in the centre of its mark.

When she reached the end of the row, she simply started over, her knives embedding themselves next to the first. The third time this happened, he made a point of stepping into her line of vision and raising his eyebrows at her.

She wouldn't meet his eyes properly. "What?"

"In the country where I come from, we take the first set of knives out before we start throwing again."

She thinned her lips and walked to the targets, lowering them down and wrenching the knives out.

He watched her re-position the targets. It wasn't like her to break routine. "Is something wrong?"

She spun a knife over and over in her hand and he watched her take a deep breath. "Henry asked me to marry him."

"He _what_?"

"Asked me to marry him. Earlier this afternoon."

"He didn't."

"He did."

Jacob whistled. "Damn."

"Yes. So would you step out of the way?"

He considered this news as she threw another round of knives. "What did you say?"

"I told him that I wasn't ready for the responsibility of marriage."

"But you left it open for the future?"

A muscle in her jaw jumped. "He's a good man."

That was all fine and well, he thought, but he didn't have to like it. "You still could've just turned him down outright," he said, aware of how petulant his voice sounded.

"I'm my own person, Jacob. I can make my own decisions."

* * *

Evie leaned over the waste basket, stomach still rolling. If only the train wouldn't _sway_ so much, she thought with a groan. Maybe it was time to look for a room that wasn't on wheels.

A tap on her shoulder indicated that Agnes had returned with water. "Thank you," Evie croaked, accepting the cup. She managed two sips before her stomach lurched again, forcing her back over the waste basket.

So much for breakfast, Evie thought glumly. Some of it had still stayed down, though it was currently doing its traitorous best to come up with the rest.

When she managed to raise her head again, Agnes had knelt on the ground and was gently rubbing her back. "Miss Evie," she said quietly, "I've seen this afore with me sisters… When were your courses last?"

Evie stared at Agnes and felt all of the blood leave her face. She suddenly wanted to throw up again, but this time, it had nothing to do with the rocking of the train.

* * *

 **Notes:**

Victorian condoms did exist. They weren't as effective as what we have now, obviously, but they were understood as a method of birth control.


	12. Wedding

"Henry," Evie called out, stepping into the dusty comfort of his shop. "Are you in?"

"Evie!" He poked his head out from the back room and beamed at her. "Welcome, hello, come in- did you need me for something?"

She took a deep breath and tried to still her shaking hands. "I would like to speak to you."

"Of course," he said easily, "I will lock up for a bit. Come through, I will make tea."

Standing in the back room and waiting for Henry made Evie feel, if possible, worse. This is where she and Jacob had spent some of their first nights in each others' arms. And yet, she was not back here to be with him.

Henry came back bearing two steaming tea cups. "One for you," he passed the delicate china to her, "milk and no sugar."

Of course he would remember. That was Henry.

"And one for me," he finished, drawing a chair up across from her. "So, to what do I owe this pleasure? Not that you ever need a reason to visit."

"There are two things." She took a deep and shaky breath. "I need you to listen to both before you say anything."

"All right," he said, confused but willing.

She steeled herself and the words came out in a rush, tripping over each other in their haste to get out. "The first is that I'm willing to accept your proposal, if you'll still have me. The second is that I'm expecting a child." The passing weeks had made that a certainty, a terrible reality that she could no longer avoid.

With the words out, she closed her eyes, afraid of what his face might show. It was out in the open now. There was no going back.

When the silence had gone on for what felt like an eternity, she opened her eyes a crack. His face was completely blank. She couldn't decide if that was better or worse than fury.

He finally spoke. "The- the father… Would he not have you?"

"What?" she said, confused.

"Is that why you turn to me? Because you were spurned by him?"

It wasn't the reaction she had expected. "What? Henry, that's- no, no, that's not it. He would have me in a heartbeat. That's not it."

"Then… Why?"

Because everything is different now, she thought, and you're a good man. "When I turned you down before, it was because I still wanted the freedom that being unmarried provided. I wasn't ready to be a wife, with all of the societal restriction that entails. But now I have more than myself to think about, so I have to put aside childish desires." She looked at her tea, hands curled around the cup in her lap. "I admire and respect you, Henry. You would be a wonderful husband and father."

"Do you love me?" he asked quietly.

He deserved the truth. "I know I will grow to love you, in time."

He was silent again.

It had been a mistake to do this, she thought suddenly, her throat tightening. Why on earth would he say yes? The weeks of talking herself up to this had meant she was too ready to overestimate his generosity. She was pregnant with someone else's child- and good God, if he ever knew whose- no one would accept that. No one. She had made a fool of herself.

Setting her teacup aside hurriedly, she stood to leave. If she had to cry, it would be in private. "I'm so sorry, Henry, I should never have done any of this. It was wrong of me to come and so very wrong of me to ask that of you, I'll show myself out-"

He took her hand and held it firmly. "Miss Frye," he said gently, "I would be honoured to be joined with you in matrimony."

To her horror, a sob escaped her throat. "What?"

"I have loved you since the day we met," he said, the sincerity of his gaze nearly blinding. "And your honesty is something that I admired the most in you. I hope that you will love me one day as I love you, and although I am- well, taken aback- by your news, you are still _you_." He squeezed her hand. "You are still the studious, enchanting, hard-working woman that I want to be with. And if it is this child that has led to us being together, then I will love that child as well. Please stay. Let us talk of what we do next."

He is so kind, she thought, as he stood to embrace her and she felt the tears start. He is truly the kindest man in the world.

* * *

"Gentlemen, we have our winner!" Topping's voice rang out over the roaring crowd. "I don't think anyone expected that!"

Jacob stepped over the knocked out bodies on the mat and vaulted over the edge of the ring. Rolling his shoulders, he strode towards Topping to collect his winnings. Hecklers and fans yelled at him, praise and insults rolling together into one drunken, cacophonous wave. It was his kind of scene.

Topping beckoned Jacob in close as he counted out the bills. "The problem," Topping said out of the corner his mouth as he passed over the money, "is that people _are_ starting to expect it, and betting is better when there's a bit of, you know," he wiggled his fingers, " _doubt_ in the situation."

"I don't throw fights," Jacob said firmly, quickly flipping through the bills.

"My lord, you can't imagine that I would suggest such a thing," Topping said, looking offended. He waved a few of the spectators away and threw an arm around Jacob's shoulder. "No- I was wondering if you knew of someone who could give you a proper fight, something that would make a real spectacle and get the punters in." The prospect made his eyes gleam. "The unbeatable Jacob Frye, given a run for his money."

Jacob considered it, stuffing his winnings into his pocket. "Evie can kick my ass to next Tuesday when she really puts her mind to it," he finally said.

Topping laughed merrily. "Think about it, would you?" he said, clapping Jacob on the back and wandering away to announce the next fight.

Jacob stared after him, a bit bemused. Topping made it sound like Jacob had told a good joke. He hadn't been joking.

* * *

Evie was perched on the sofa when Jacob returned. Her heart dropped when she saw him humming happily, winnings in his pocket and a spring in his step.

He reached out for her with a grin when he spotted her. "A kiss for the king of the ring?"

She put a hand up, fighting the urge to cry and throw up at once. His smile faltered.

"I need to talk to you," she managed. She had put this off for far too long. The right thing would have been to go to him immediately, and she knew that. Instead, she had let them interact like normal, trying to treasure their last few weeks before everything had to change.

But now it was time. It was past time.

"What's wrong?" he said, suddenly wrong-footed, his hands still half in the air.

Oh, where to start. "I've accepted Henry's proposal."

Jacob half-laughed and cocked his head. "What?"

"The wedding is in three days."

The smile was completely gone now. "What are you- Jesus, what?" He goggled at her. "Have you gone mad?"

She forced the words out. It was harder to tell him than it had been to tell Henry. "My courses are late."

The silence was deafening.

"How late?" he breathed.

"Almost three months."

He swayed slightly and grabbed the back of the desk chair for support. "Shit," he breathed.

"Yes."

"But if- with Greenie- was it- I mean was he- is it-" he was pointing vaguely back and forth at her stomach and then out the window, the colour draining from his face. She followed his meaning.

"No," she said simply.

He took a deep breath of what possibly was relief, the pallor fading slightly. "Me," he said, less a question and more a statement.

She nodded.

"Shit," he said again. He took his hat off and ran a hand through his hair. "But if it's not Greenie, then why…" he trailed off.

"I'm hardly going to marry you, am I?"

"But why get married at all?"

She frowned. "The Rooks accept a lot, Jacob, but I doubt they would accept that." They had come to terms with women in trousers, women with guns, with her in leadership- but even they had limits. War was war, but marriage and children were a different matter. She had already pushed them to the edge of credulity.

"Of course they would," he replied, sitting down next to her and taking her hands. He looked hopeful and encouraging, which made her feel like the worst sort of person. "We'll rent you a room, Clara could find you a girl to help, or maybe she'd help herself, she likes you, and we'd keep the train as a base but I'd be there with you-"

She briefly tried to imagine Jacob changing nappies, but it was a stretch. She pulled her hands away. "I appreciate the thought, Jacob, but it's already arranged."

"But we could just-"

"Please," her voice cracked a little. "Jacob, it wouldn't work. What would you do, bounce a baby at night and run a gang in the morning? Expect me to sit back and stay there, trapped in some small room in Whitehall? Field questions about the father for the rest of my life? And besides," she said, crossing her arms, "it might work the first time, but what about the next time?"

"The next time?" he croaked.

"Yes, Jacob, the next time, because if I stay here in a room in Whitehall there's going to be a next time."

"You mean another-"

" _Yes_ , another baby, and another, and another, because if once then why not again? We're clearly capable. Don't you think that it would attract comment- that all and sundry would find it a _little_ curious- just you and me alone, with child after child, no explanation for a father in sight, and all of them looking like us?"

Jacob looked like he might throw up. Good, she thought, that makes two of us. She desperately needed him to understand that this was not a choice she was making lightly, nor was it one that she was happy about. It was a matter of necessity, not desire.

"We could not, you know," he said awkwardly, "be together like that."

She shot him a skeptical look.

"Fair enough- there are ways to prevent children, though."

"Which we already tried," she said gently. "None of them are foolproof."

"But if we-"

"Jacob, I have more than myself to think about now. The distance will be a good thing."

"Distance? I don't understand."

"We leave for India the day after the wedding."

The scant remaining colour drained out of Jacob's face. "What- for good?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "Henry wants to go back, and I should respect what he wants, given what he's doing for me."

Stunned into silence, they sat side by side, staring into space as the train rocked onwards.

She twisted her hands in her lap. "And it's not just that, not really. I need to think about all of the possibilities – and I could never leave you alone with the responsibility of a baby." She saw Clara's haunted stare in her mind's eye.

"Leave?"

She smiled grimly. "Frye women don't have a history of easy childbirth."

The wood made a creaking sound as he gripped the handle of the couch tightly, his knuckles turning white.

She looked at him. "Could you stand being responsible for that?"

He was looking at his feet, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Why can Greenie be responsible for it, then?"

"Henry has family, Jacob. He wouldn't be alone; he would have support. You would be alone."

She watched as he stood slowly and walked to the desk, silent, until he roared with anger and picked up an inkwell, shattering it on the floor. He stalked up and down the carriage, kicking the furniture, throwing a few of the books at the wall, knocking some of the decorations off their perches.

She hadn't seen him lose his temper like this since the fights he used to have with their Father. It was something about the sense of powerlessness that Jacob felt when facing Father, she had thought at the time, and she wondered if that was what was happening again.

When he finally slumped back down next to her and spoke, it was defeated. "There's nothing I can say or do that will change your mind, is there?"

"I'm sorry."

He stared at his lap. "I can't believe that I don't get any say in what's happening with my own _child_."

She just shook her head.

He sighed and put his face in his hands. "So Henry knows about- well, about-"

"About the baby? Yes, of course."

"And the father?"

"He knows that the father is-" she hesitated, "an Englishman. But that's all. He says he'll raise it like his own."

Jacob suddenly laughed, a hollow sound with no real humour. "I never thought I would relate so much to Father."

It was strange, she thought, to hear him bring up Father. It was like he had been able to hear her earlier thoughts. "Sorry?"

"He hated me at first because I took away the thing he loved the most." She opened her mouth to argue but he raised a hand to silence her. "No, don't disagree; I came into being, and because of that, Mum disappeared." He glanced bitterly at her stomach. "And now it's happening again."

Like so often as of late, she felt like there was nothing she could say.

* * *

Jacob woke up to light filtering through the window, his brain taking a few moments to remember where he was. The bed was a lot wider and more comfortable than he was used to, meaning that he hadn't had to sleep on top of the other person in it.

He groaned and sat up, rubbing his face and looking for water. His head throbbed. Too much beer last night. Again.

The other person in the bed stirred sleepily. "It's still early," she said, reaching out and placing a slender hand on his arm. "Come back to bed."

She looked a lot less like Evie in the early morning light, missing the spray of freckles and the thick dark lashes. "No, I've got to get cracking. My sister is getting married today."

Sheets rustled as she popped up. "Evie's getting married? Really? To _who?_ "

"Greenie. I mean, that is, Henry. Henry Green."

"Wow," she breathed, curling against the headboard and lifting the sheets to cover her bare chest. "I didn't know anything about this." She grinned at him. "He's awfully handsome. But I hadn't even heard that he was courting her."

Jacob mumbled something noncommittal.

Her smile turned sly. "Evie wouldn't happen to be in the family way, would she? Is that the rush? I certainly wouldn't blame her."

Something in his face made her immediately backtrack, bringing a blush to her cheeks. "Sorry, I shouldn't have- of course you don't want to think about your sister that way. Sorry." She tried to lighten the atmosphere with a smile. "I'm sure she'll go to the altar pure as driven snow."

Christ, he thought, from bad to worse. He knew that he should probably say something, but the best he could manage was a half-hearted grimace. She was hardly to blame, but it was definitely past time to go. He stood and started to tug his clothes back on, collecting them from the floor where they had been casually tossed the night before. He wasn't entirely sure where this house was- it was nice and had some expensive looking furnishings, so it definitely wasn't Whitechapel- but if he could get somewhere high up, no doubt he would find his bearings.

She stood with the sheet wrapped around her thin form. "You could stay for breakfast?"

"No, sorry, I really should get going." Feeling like a bit of a bastard, he pulled her over and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Thanks for the offer, though."

"See you again soon?"

He was definitely a bastard. "Yeah, sure."

He left by the window into the weak morning sunshine.

* * *

Evie hadn't seen Jacob since that terrible conversation. He hadn't come back to the train at all, and she knew better than to go looking for him.

She was looking in the mirror now, frowning as Agnes twisted flowers into her hair.

"Lovely man, that Mr. Green," Agnes soothed, no doubt sensing the bride's unease. "Don't be afraid, hen. He'll treat you well."

Evie smiled at her weakly.

She stood and smoothed her coat down a bit self-consciously. She had opted for an outfit much like her normal wear; if it was good enough for Henry then, it would be good enough for him now. In a small concession to the occasion, she had picked out the coat that was least worn and with the most embroidery. A soft blue, it set off the white flowers in her hair.

Virginal blue and white, she noted. Ironic.

* * *

Jacob found his suit in the bottom of the trunk that he kept stuffed under the couch. It was a bit rumpled, not having seen any use since the ball where they took down Starrick, but it would do.

He combed his hair and shaved. Nearly killed himself in the process because his hands were a bit shaky, but he did it.

He didn't want to go. He had to go.

Rather than running across rooftops or risking the mud of the streets, he arranged to take a Rooks carriage. His felt nauseous for the whole ride. The horse picked up on his nerves, skittering anxiously around. "Who's a good horse," Jacob muttered, patting the beast and trying to calm it. "You are."

He found Evie at the door of the church with Agnes. She looked nervous. She had done something with her hair and the flowers framed her face like a halo, white petals against dark braids. Her whole face lit up when she saw him, a big smile stretching across her features.

It hurt. Dear God, it hurt.

She reached out to him when he drew closer. "You came."

"Couldn't miss poor Henry's funeral," he said, attempting for humour he didn't feel.

"Agnes," Evie said, keeping her eyes on him. "Can I have a moment with my brother?"

Agnes clucked approvingly and ducked into the church.

She put her hand to his cheek. "I was worried that you wouldn't be here; I had just about given up."

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't consider it."

"Please, Jacob, I know this is hard-"

"Please don't leave," he said, a last ditch attempt. "Please don't do this."

Her eyes narrowed and he could see the determination in her features, the sure sign of Evie on a mission. "This isn't easy for me either, Jacob. I'm trying to do the right thing."

She was an immovable rock once set. Whether she had decided to have the last biscuit in the jar or to take a life on a mission, that had always been the case.

It was how she was. It was how she loved. He supposed he just had to accept it.

One last look, he thought, taking in every line and every curve of her face, trying to preserve the memory of it.

He held out his arm. "I'll walk you in."

* * *

 **Notes:**

Welp, here we are. The angst is heavy in this one.

Anyone wanting to write Fryecest and follow the original plot (which I wanted to do) comes up with an immediate problem: why did Evie leave?

To me, Evie is highly practical. She is also proud, and she cares about what other people think. I decided that this would be the main motivation for her leaving: not because she wanted to, but because she felt she had to.

What could be so pressing, so humiliating? I settled on the obvious answer, the same thing that has been pushing women to make drastic choices for millennia.

And either way, it ain't over until the fat lady sings! There is more yet to come.

(P.S., Hooraaaaaay for modern reproductive freedom.)


	13. Letters

**1867**

 _Dear Jacob,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. The train from London to Folkestone was uneventful, and I am currently writing onboard the_ S. S. Mayweather _, which is taking us to Calais. From there we move to another train. The weather has been good and the journey easy so far. I have much to be grateful for._

 _I miss you. I know you may never forgive me, but I need to believe that some contact will remain between us. I will continue to write even if you do not respond, hoping that you will at least read my words. I feel that is all I can ask now._

 _All my love,_

 _Evie_

* * *

 _Dear Jacob,_

 _We are in Marsailles today, and it is a pleasure to be able to stretch my legs after so much time on a train. The south of France is beautiful but not as lovely, in my mind, as the hillsides of Kent._

 _The steamer for Alexandria leaves in two days, so I will be able to explore freely until then. I hope to find some reading for the long journey ahead._

 _It is so humid here, the air thick with smells. It is unfortunate that I become nauseous so easily, as the smells are definitely not helping on that front._

 _The receptionist at our hotel tried to embarrass me for being an English lady married to an Indian man. I broke into the office at night and hid some fresh fish in the ceiling grate; the hotel will reek long before they find it, if they ever do._

 _Henry would scold but I know you will think this as funny as I do._

 _Missing you still,_

 _Evie_

* * *

 _Dear Jacob,_

 _The hours stretch into days on this boat and I am losing track of time from restless boredom. Alexandria seems an age away. Henry tries to keep me occupied, but I am afraid that I am not easily entertained. I miss you terribly._

 _My nausea has gotten worse, but whether it is from my condition or being at sea I cannot say. Either way, it does little to improve my mood._

 _I am starting to waddle a bit. Between that and constantly being sick, my dignity is in tatters. Hopefully you will find the mental image diverting, as it would at least then serve some sort of purpose._

 _Miserably yours,_

 _Evie_

* * *

 _Evie,_

 _Writing is not my strong suit. But as it's all we have, I will try._

 _I miss you too. Nights are lonely here._

 _I've been dealing with a sudden crop of brothels springing up in Whitechapel. They take too big of a cut from the girls and don't provide security. Not happening under my watch._

 _Yes, I am angry. But I also love you._

 _Be safe._

 _J_

 _P.S. I was very- how did you put it- "diverted" by your description of yourself. Please include a sketch in your next letter._

* * *

 _Dear Jacob,_

 _Your letter caught up to me in Alexandria. We have been keeping an eye on the mail trains, both for intelligence and for any news from you._

 _It was a joy to hear from you. I have unfolded and re-folded your letter so many times that the paper is ready to fall apart._

 _We have been staying here and resting because I have not been well. Henry insisted that I see an English doctor, so he searched high and low and eventually was directed to one by the British embassy. This doctor in turn then insisted that I couldn't travel._

 _I think they are overreacting, but nonetheless, Alexandria is a fascinating place. I don't mind staying here for a bit longer._

 _I wish you luck with Whitechapel. Perhaps you would be best served by training people specifically to watch the area? Someone from Crawley may be interested in joining you (don't invite George!)._

 _I love you too. I hope you will understand one day._

 _Delightedly yours,_

 _Evie_

 _P.S. I have included a sketch, as you requested. I have dramatized for comedic purposes; rest assured, I am not actually the size of a hackney coach._

* * *

 _Evie,_

 _I would never invite George, but I am thinking of training some Assassins here. There are young men and women in the Rooks. They have no families. They could benefit and so would I._

 _Your sketch got a good laugh down the pub. From the men, anyway. The women were sympathetic._

 _I didn't like reading that you are ill. Listen to the doctor, Evie. I know you don't want to, but you should._

 _J_

* * *

 _Evie,_

 _I haven't had a letter from you in a month. Is your mail going astray?_

 _J_

* * *

 _Evie,_

 _Please write._

 _J_

* * *

 _Evie,_

 _If you don't write soon I'm getting on the next damned train and coming to India._

 _J_

* * *

 _Dear Jacob,_

 _I didn't know how to write this letter._

 _Cecily was born on January 21_ _st_ _, far too early. I had two days with her while she fought for life. She was beautiful._

 _We buried her in Alexandria._

 _It was too raw to put in words._

 _I rested for two weeks but couldn't stand to stay any longer. We left for Suez by train and then boarded a boat to Bombay, which is where I write from now. At last, our journey is almost over._

 _Yours,_

 _Evie_

* * *

 _Evie,_

 _Say I can come to you._

 _J_

* * *

 _Dear Jacob,_

 _Someone needs to watch London, and I think you know this. The Blighters are too recently disbanded for you to leave the city to their mercy._

 _I'm sorry._

 _My health is much improved and I am settling into the Assassin community here. They were slightly hesitant until I showed them my knife throwing, and it was all smiles and open arms after that._

 _Henry is Jayadeep here, though he says I may call him whatever I wish. He is trying to teach me Hindi. You will be pleased to hear that I am atrocious at it._

 _Always yours,_

 _Evie_

* * *

 _Evie,_

 _At this point London can go hang for all I care. But you say no, so I will stay._

 _I wish I could hold you._

 _We have been expanding further south here. I have begun to appoint Lieutenants. The Rooks are becoming too big to manage on my own._

 _Clara asks after you often. I don't think she likes working with me._

 _J_

* * *

 _Dear Jacob,_

 _It is unbearably hot here. I have taken to wearing the local dress, with a slight adaptation so I can move easily. The heavy English fabrics are impossible in this temperature._

 _Be sure to choose your Lieutenants wisely. I think it is a good decision that you are expanding; the gangs further south were no better than the Blighters. I can only think that the city will be better for their eradication._

 _As for Clara, she will adjust. We all will in time._

 _Forever yours,_

 _Evie_

* * *

 **1870**

 _Dear Jacob,_

 _I marked the day that you depart London on my calendar months ago, and I awoke this morning thrilled that it has finally come. I will send this to Alexandria so it is waiting for you when you reach there._

 _All is ready for your arrival. I am so curious to meet your new disciples and see if they are at all how you described them in your letters, especially young Jack._

 _I have several trips planned. There is so much to show you._

 _Do not let anything delay you, or our first interaction will be me twisting your ear like I used to do when we were children._

 _Impatiently yours,_

 _Evie_

* * *

Jacob had promised himself before arriving that he would stay far away from any situation where he might end up alone with Evie. This proved difficult in practice. Once she was in sight, it was as though she was magnetic; it was like a pulse that beat between them, an invisible cord that thrummed with tension whenever she was around.

His avoidance strategy worked effectively for a few days. But then, he had walked into a room looking for Jack and found her instead. She was perched on a windowsill, hair gleaming in the sunshine, reading alone.

She smiled at him and it was like an old wound ripping open, all of the grief of the last few years rushing to the forefront.

He stumbled towards her and her smile faltered.

"Jacob," she said slowly, as if she was testing the sound of the word, unsure and hesitant.

He closed to the last few steps between them like a drowning man swimming for land. Her eyes closed as his hand reached out to stroke her cheek, now much browner and more freckled than it had ever been in England. Different, but still beautiful.

"I've missed you," he managed. He had said it before, when he first arrived, but it meant something different now. He knew she would understand.

Her eyes stayed closed and she leaned a little bit into his hand. "I've missed you as well."

He leaned down towards her lips, an instinctive gesture of old habit, but she turned her head away. "No," she said quietly. "I made a decision that I hoped would be for the best, I can't go back on it now."

"What if it wasn't for the best?" He had always imagined this discussion going a little differently. Of him accusing her angrily, exacting just revenge for past wrongs, before preferably romantically sweeping her away back to London in a whirl of passion. Instead of that, his words were coming out plaintively and the strongest urge was to throw himself on his knees and beg. He couldn't even be upset with himself for it, if it only meant that there was a chance of having her again. "Would you ever change your mind?"

Her eyes were sad and her voice was soft. "I don't know, but until I do…" she reached up and pulled his hand away from her face, leaving the rest of the words unsaid. She wouldn't dishonour Henry. He loved and hated her for it all at once.

The words fell out in a rush. "Come back to England with me."

She met his eyes and he held his breath.

"I'll think about it."

* * *

Think about it she did. For days she did nothing else, her mind tossing and turning, unable to focus on anything other than the question that had rolled around in the back of her head for years: had she made a terrible mistake? Could it be undone? Should it be undone?

Henry noticed, because he always did. "Are you going to tell me what it is?" he finally asked over breakfast one morning.

She buttered her bread slowly, trying to decide what to say.

He considered her over his tea. "Are you thinking about going back to London?"

She shot him a surprised look.

He sighed and put his cup down. "I know that you miss it."

"Would you stop me?"

He stood and walked around the table, sitting beside her and taking her hands. "I would, of course, prefer that you stay. But I knew when I married you that I could never hope to stop you if you wanted to leave."

He gave her a gentle kiss and they spoke no more of it after that.

* * *

On the last day of Jacob's trip, Evie faced the fact that she could no longer avoid giving him his answer. She went to his room under the cover of night, leaving Henry sound asleep, knowing that the hallways would be empty. When she knocked, he let her in quickly, glancing out of his door to make sure that no one was watching.

They perched on his bed and he twisted his hands. "Have you decided?"

She took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eyes. "I can't come back with you. Not now."

Even now, she wasn't sure if this was the right choice. The pull of him, and of London, was enormous. It would be lovely to be back in the hustle of the city, among people who spoke her own language.

But she had made a choice. The reasons for her choice still stood. And most of all, Henry deserved better.

It seemed to be the answer he expected. He nodded ruefully.

"He's been good to me," she continued quietly.

"I know," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I've seen it. I can't even hate him any more- the least he could do is be an incorrigible bastard so I could spirit you away without any guilt. It's hard to be a knight in shining armour when I've met the dragon and he's a gentle, bookish Indian man."

She laughed at that, patting his face a little sadly. "It doesn't mean I don't love you."

Jacob groaned. "No, don't say that, say you hate me and I'm a sick lech for wanting you and I should go find a normal woman."

"I hate you and you're a sick lech for wanting me," she intoned. "Go find a normal woman."

He swatted her over the head and she laughed some more.

She wound her fingers in his. "Do you think you can ever forgive me?" she asked, not sure if she wanted to know the answer.

He was silent.

Perhaps the silence was her answer, she thought, moving to pull her hands away. "I understand if you can't."

He gripped her fingers tightly, stopping her, and made a gruff sound in the back of his throat that might have been a chuckle. "Of course I can. I already have, _sweet_ and infuriating sister of mine. You were right, I think now, when I look back." He sighed and pulled her backwards, into his arms, and they leaned against the headboard. "I just hate that you were right. I would appreciate it if you would stop doing that."

"I make no promises," she replied, and was rewarded with a proper chuckle.

They lay there silently, listening to the crickets and other sounds of the night, enjoying her head resting on his shoulder. Surely they could at least have this, she thought. This couldn't be wrong.

She thought that he had maybe fallen asleep when he suddenly spoke. "I went and found Cecily when we went through Alexandria."

It was like being doused with ice water, the sleepy contentment of the night vanished in a moment.

"Left some flowers," he continued. "Wish I could've met her."

Evie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The terrible, tender grief of those early days had gradually eased, leaving her able to move without the crippling weight of her own mourning. Henry had simply held her through the night for weeks in a row, stroking her back as her whole body wept, seeking the child who could never come back.

It took an age, but things were better now. Not perfect, never perfect, but better. She could even hold other children without wanting to weep, though the ache deep in her chest would return. She suspected that it would always return.

She wondered if he felt that ache too. She couldn't ask- perhaps one day, she would. Perhaps.

They sat together until the sun rose, each contentedly resting against the other, breathing in sync. As morning came, Evie quietly slipped away, padding back her own room.

Tired and wiping her eyes, she didn't notice the small figure of young Jack peering out of a crack in his door, hungrily watching her leave.

* * *

 **1872**

 _Evie,_

 _I have a son. He was born two days ago and he seems healthy and strong. His mother has named him Emmett, with my blessing._

 _Her name is Anne. She is married. Even so, the child can only be mine. Her husband has been abroad with Her Majesty's Army for over a year as a commanding officer._

 _I'm sure this will be a shock, but I didn't know how to say it before._

 _I offered to marry her, but he will not grant a divorce. I have decided that I will see Emmett regardless of who the law considers to be his father. My son will know he is a Frye._

 _J_

* * *

 _Dear Jacob,_

 _There is nothing to apologize for. You and Anne must be very proud. Although I forgive you for not mentioning her sooner, you must imagine me twisting your ear at least once in retaliation._

 _I hope to meet Emmett someday. Please send a photo once you can procure one._

 _I have included a knitted hat in this package. I hope it will keep his small head warm in the English weather, which I remember to be quite damp._

 _Some of the new recruits here have started calling me "Grandmother". I told them that they should all be very embarrassed if they can be so thoroughly beaten into the ground by a Grandmother. This has not deterred them in the slightest. Henry finds this all_ highly _amusing._

 _Write again soon,_

 _Evie_

* * *

 _Grandmother Evie,_

 _I have included a photo. It had to be of him sleeping so I could ensure he would be still. He favours the Frye side already. This obviously means he will look like me: devastatingly handsome._

 _As you can see, he is in your hat. It is a little big at the moment, but Anne has assured me that this will change quickly. She has several other children already and is very good with him. I am all thumbs._

 _Polly (remember her?) has descended on London. It would seem she is still alive through pure force of will and the preservative power of gin. Even though she is mostly blind, she can somehow still whip me at whist._

 _Her visit was made with the intent of doting on Emmett and offering her help and guidance. Anne was a little taken aback when Polly arrived (and remains unwilling to follow most of her advice, with good reason), but she has taken it in good grace. I believe she has come to accept it as the cost of knowing me._

 _I also hope Emmett will meet you someday. After all, you are his only family on my side._

 _J_

* * *

 **1888**

 _Evie,_

 _I never wanted to send this letter. Jack is out of control._

 _I know that I have been writing to you about his increasingly erratic behaviour over the last year, but things have now exceeded my worst nightmares. There can be no coming back from what he has done._

 _I promised myself years ago that I would never again ask you to leave India. But y_ _ou have always been the best Assassin I know. I need you._

 _J  
_

* * *

 **POST OFFICE TELEGRAPHS.**

 **The enclosed was received,**

 **Dated** 14 September, 1886

 **To be delivered to**

Jacob Frye, 14b Back Church Lane, Whitechapel, London

 **Message:**

On my way. E. 

* * *

**Notes:**

Information about travelling to India in the 19th century: .


	14. Jack

It was Friday night in Whitechapel and ale was flowing freely. Ed had been in London for a few months now, and he still marvelled at it. With the Rooks footing the bill, he could eat and drink his fill without a second thought. It was a far cry from the hunger of Swindon.

Three-fingered Bill was halfway through a hilarious story involving his first wife when there was a bang, followed by some yelling, and silence rippled out through the pub.

Ed craned his neck around and saw Mad Mike- a Rook Lieutenant- shaking a man by the collar. "My eight quid, man," Mike was yelling through ragged breaths. "Give me my eight pounds."

He looked crazed. Mike's hair was standing up at strange angles and his clothes were ripped in places. His hands were quivering even as they fisted in the other man's shirt.

"Goddamnit it, Mikey" the other man choked back. "I don't have that kind of brass just _on_ me, mate, what the hell's gotten into you-"

Mike suddenly punched the other man without warning, knocking him down to the ground. The pub collectively held its breath. "I leant you that money," Mike spat, his voice now ragged. "I need it back _now_."

"What the _fuck_ ," one of the other men breathed, leaning down to check on his now-passed out friend. "Why in the fuck do you need it so badly?"

"Gotta get out of town," Mike shuddered, looking around with wild eyes. "Gotta leave now."

"What?" another voice called out. Ed recognized one of the other Lieutenants, a fellow who was even rumoured to speak with Jack directly. "You can't _go_ , Mike, are you off your fucking head? You don't just leave the Rooks."

Mike was starting to look like a cornered animal. "Got to go or she'll kill me," he said, choking on the words. "She's going to kill us all, I tell you, every last one of us."

Ed felt a chill run down the back of his neck.

The other Lieutenant forced a laugh. "Who, Mike? Look, you've just had a bit too much to drink-"

" _The Frye woman!_ " Mad Mike almost shrieked. "You're all sitting here but you don't know, she's going to kill us all, I have to leave, I don't want to die-"

"Mikey, Mikey," the bartender approached, his arms up. This all was bad for business. "You're going to be fine, come on-"

Mike was still raving. "I saw her, I was at Lady O's, Lady O is dead, they're all dead- _I saw her_ , she had eyes like the devil and she took out a dozen men as I watched, we didn't stand a chance and she didn't even _break a sweat_ , I'm only alive because I was hiding and even then she saw me, she _looked right at me_ , and I'm only alive because _I wasn't worth the trouble of killing_."

He broke off and took shaky deep breaths as the pub sat in stunned silence, unsure about what to do next.

"I'm sorry," Mike rasped as he pulled out his gun and cocked it. Every man tensed, their hands going for their belts. "Give me your money, quick, now, I've got to get out of town, I've got to leave-"

There was a sudden _crack_ and Mad Mike slowly toppled forward. Bill stood behind him, holding the bottle that he had just knocked against the back of Mike's head.

"Nutty bastard," Bill muttered. "What the hell was that all about?"

There was awkward laughter and chatter gently resumed in the pub, everyone trying to ease past what had just happened. But Ed sat silently, his throat tight. He knew Mad Mike. Mad Mike was from Swindon, just like Ed was, and Ed had only come to London because he knew Mike would give him a place.

Back in Swindon, Ed once watched Mad Mike charge into a row of stampeding horses for a bet. He fought off the local sheriff like it was nothing. He was brave, and he was strong. And despite the moniker, he was eminently sane; the name referred to his legendary temper, not his soundness of mind.

Looking at Mad Mike on the ground, Ed wondered if it maybe wouldn't be a good idea to go visit his Mother for a bit. He had enough saved for a train fare back. Yes, maybe… Maybe he would go north, just for a little while. It had nothing to do with what just happened. He was just being a good son, he told himself.

He left that night.

* * *

When Evie travelled from India to London, it was with a knot in her stomach.

It was partly fear about what she would find, of course, and Jacob's silence was deeply worrying. But if she was honest with herself, a large part of her anxiety was about whether she would be able to cope with what awaited her when she arrived back in England.

Over the years in India, Evie had focused mostly on working with new recruits and researching artifacts. She had kept up with her training, yes, but it was with sparring partners and wooden targets. It had been years since she had been on a mission, and even longer since her last kill.

She didn't know if she would be able to do what Jacob needed.

When she arrived and Sergeant- or Detective, now, she had to remember- Abberline showed her the first murder scene, the knot began to solidify into something that felt more like anger. She saw Jack's actions, the horrors that Jacob had not been able to put into words on a page. A sense of grim resolve gently unfurled in her veins, subtle as morning mist on the Thames.

By the time she saw the blood in Jacob's rooms, the knot had contorted into rage.

Her fury drove her. It focused her mind like nothing that she had experienced ever before, narrowing her world until it existed only for one thing: _find Jack. Kill him_.

She didn't avoid the Rooks, didn't try to minimize the bloodshed she inflicted in the streets. It made Detective Abberline despair and question her judgement, she knew, but she couldn't think clearly. They had _betrayed_ Jacob, betrayed everything that he had spent twenty years working for, and caused him untold pain.

If they challenged her, it was a matter of moments before she threw the illusion of fear at them, their pathetic lives ending in a screaming haze of horror.

It was as good as they deserved.

She couldn't remember ever being this angry. Even those moments of fury against Starrick were nothing compared to this and the way that it crowded her every waking moment. It consumed her, and she embraced it. It staved off the despair that she could sense waiting in the wings.

Once upon a time, she saw the rivets on an automated loom come loose. The whole machine shuddered and shuddered until everything fell apart with a terrific bang, the metal crumpling in on itself as if it were paper. It was how she felt when she found Jacob, deep in the underbelly of Lambeth, his battered form slumped over. Like she would shudder apart, her helpless rage turned inwards, her whole body shredded from the inside.

She barely recognized herself.

Jack mocked her emotion as he tried to overcome her. He mistook her trembling for fear and assumed that he had the upper hand. "Come out and play," he taunted, "who is the cat and who is the mouse?"

Yes, you are skilled, she thought, as he parried her blows. You could have been a gifted Assassin. There is no shame in Jacob having lost to you, weighed down as he was by his hope of securing your redemption.

In a split second where Jack recoiled from her strike, his guard down, she dragged her knife through his entire neck with a furious scream.

Yes, you are strong. _But I am stronger._

* * *

When Jacob opened his eyes to the four damp walls of his new prison, he had no sense of where he was or how long he had been out. He was underground, he knew, but that was it.

 _Everything_ hurt.

But Jack had no intention of allowing him to die; he forced food down Jacob's throat, drugged meals that arrived in strange intervals to disorient his sense of time. He was given clean water and even, once, some weak beer. Jack cleaned Jacob's wounds and braced his broken bones, intent on preventing possible infection.

Jacob soon realized that this was not driven by mercy. For as soon as the wounds were healed, Jack savagely reopened them. The bones only set long enough to be broken again under Jack's boot. It was an endless cycle of healing and hurting, healing and hurting.

It was not enough for Jack to wound him in body, of course. He visited for hours to taunt Jacob with stories of how Jacob's beloved recruits had died. These were women that Jacob had trained for years, some raised from childhood. Jack's descriptions of his disgusting pleasures were gleeful, so vivid that the first time he heard them, Jacob leaned over and vomited.

There was one thing, and one thing only, that kept Jacob afloat. It was the knowledge that Evie would come. She would be here, soon. And she would fix this.

It was the first bright spot of Jacob's imprisonment when Jack made the mistake of telling him that Evie had arrived. It was meant to taunt him, Jacob knew, accompanied as it was with threats of what Jack intended to do to her, revolting fantasies that he relayed to Jacob in gory detail.

But Jack did not know Evie.

Jack returned soon after and tried to make out that he had already killed her, defiled her and left her exposed on the road for the repulsive curiosity of the rabble. But Jacob was unruffled. Had Jack really killed Evie, Jacob had no doubt that he would have brought her body to his prison, a sick trophy of his triumph. There was no body. She was not dead.

Jacob knew that she was out there. And he knew that she would come. So he waited as he lived in dreams and memories, his mind far away; far enough away that he couldn't be reached by Jack and his sick pleasures.

And sure enough, in what could have been a year or a blink, there she was. She was as beautiful as he remembered. Hello, he wanted to say. I knew you would come. Don't worry, don't look so sad. Things will be better now that you're here. I love you. You're here. I knew you would come. I love you.

But his mouth would not move, so he leaned against her and hoped that it was enough for her to hear the determined beating of his heart.

* * *

She left the room while the physician examined him, not sure if she could stand to see the extent of his wounds. Afterwards, he was only able to tell Evie what she already knew: Jacob's wounds were many, and his recovery was uncertain.

She hovered over him for three days while he drifted in and out of consciousness. Not sure where else to go, she had brought him back to his old rooms, scrubbed clean of blood by an enterprising woman that Evie paid three shillings.

She worried that it was wrong to let him wake up to the scene of his capture. But she also worried that he would panic if he woke up in an unfamiliar location. There seemed to be no right answer.

Spreading a pallet out next to his bed, she kept vigil as he slept. She splurged on soft white bread and dipped it in milk, coaxing him to eat in the brief spurts where he was awake. She tried to get him to drink tea and wiped his forehead with damp rags in hopes of easing his fever.

She paced, hours of striding back and forth, her curdling anger still not entirely gone. But now, there was nowhere to vent it.

He had to recover. He had to.

* * *

Jacob felt himself becoming stronger in the intervals that he was awake, even if wasn't able to communicate that very well to Evie.

He mostly wished that she would stop looking so worried.

Unfortunately, his returning energy meant that his nightmares also returned. The pleading faces of his trainees haunted him whenever his eyes were closed; they asked why he abandoned them, why he hadn't been able to save them.

I'm sorry, he wanted to say. I'm so sorry. I tried. I wanted to. He would open his mouth to speak but his voice wouldn't work, and he would be back in the darkness of Lambeth, Jack hunched over him, killing them, taunting him.

But when he lurched awake in the darkness, soaked in sweat, unable to breathe, Evie was there. It felt wrong to be glad, but he was. She stroked his hair and pushed cool compresses to his neck, whispering calming sounds.

She was different, and his energy focused on finding those differences whenever he was awake. It was as though he couldn't believe that she was truly here. There were strands of silver in her hair now, and lines around her eyes and mouth. Age had made her quieter, less bossy than the young woman that he remembered. There was some stiffness in the way she moved. The search for Jack had taken a lot out of her.

But as days went by, it became painfully clear that she was also the same; same laugh, same eyes, same sharp mind. Same gentle touch. Still Evie. Still beautiful.

At some point, he pulled her into his arms and she let him. It was easier to sleep when he was curled around her, his hands around her waist, his nose in her hair, her sweet smell keeping the demons at bay. Later, he would think that it must have been agony for her, to be so still for hours and hours at a time when she was full of frantic energy. But she never stirred.

He started to get out of bed. They would have tea, the familiar ritual an anchor in his day. She talked aimlessly about the people in the building, gossiped about the women upstairs, the boys in the street, the men at the shop counters. He mostly nodded and drank his tea, but he appreciated the chatter.

He stretched his limbs, bending around the cramps in his muscles, sore from lack of use. He tested his ankle, terribly abused, trying to accept that he would probably always need a cane from now on. He let her help him when he finally decided that he needed to wash more than his hair; she went white as starched sheets when she first saw the scars that traced around his torso and legs. They were red and raw now, but they were clean, and he knew they would eventually fade to white.

They played cards. He was the much better gambler; she was still too cautious. She tried to teach him chess. He was terrible at it.

He started to laugh again, mostly because it was such a part of him that he couldn't _not_ laugh. Slowly, so did she.

They ignored the world. She left to get their food and returned immediately, otherwise confined to the space of his rooms. He knew that she wanted him to go outside, but he wasn't ready yet. Not just yet.

* * *

There was a lot that was different from what Evie remembered about Jacob, but it was hard to say if that was because of their time apart or his ordeal with Jack.

He was much more sombre now, more serious. When she went out to fetch food, people spoke of his leadership in the community, the respect that he carried on his shoulders.

As he rested, she watched his features, and she couldn't help but notice that he was still handsome. Possibly more so than when he was young. She traced his jaw with her hand lightly, smiling a little as she remembered his frantic adolescent attempts to grow facial hair.

Before long he wanted her to sleep in his bed, and he was in such obvious pain that it was impossible to disagree. Even as he shivered from nightmares and moaned wordlessly at Jack in his sleep, she found that her body remembered a different sort of intimacy. It made her face flush like she was eighteen again, and she found herself grateful that he preferred to fold her smaller body into his, cradling her back. Her shame was her own.

* * *

He had thought he was perhaps old enough that he could keep his baser instincts in check, his experience harrowing enough that he would have no interest in anything other than recovering.

Unfortunately, Evie did not always bring out the best in him.

As always, as always, he was unwilling to push her. But he was willing to push himself to make her smile. He did training exercises with her, gentle stretching and endurance moves when he would much rather have stayed in bed and let the world roll on.

He let her bring some of the neighbourhood in to see him, people who had worried about him in his absence. Nellie cried when she saw him, taking his hands in hers and hiccoughing about how everyone had missed him. It was awkward. Evie smiled at him over the weeping woman's head, so it was worth it.

It was how he found himself, hand tucked securely in hers, leaning on his cane, being led up to the roof one afternoon.

"I don't know if I'm ready," he protested.

She tugged on his hand and smiled, and his chest flopped over. "You are. It's not properly outside. There are no people. It's a beautiful day, and you should see some sun- pastiness isn't attractive, whatever your stupid books about vampires might have told you."

He complained and she laughed, leaning down and bracing him under his armpits to help him through the trap ladder door. With anyone else, it would have been humiliating to the extreme. With her, he just found that his mouth was suddenly extremely dry because his face was pressed so close to her chest. Christ, was he still sixteen?

They sat on the roof. There was the initial rush of dizziness, the cramped feeling in his stomach, the sensation that his lungs couldn't fill to their capacity. The fear. But she held one of his hands and used her other to stroke his back, and the feeling gradually eased, replaced by warm sunshine on his face.

Maybe he could start again, he thought. It would be slow, and it would be hard, but maybe he could do it.

He looked at her and smiled. She smiled back.

He was feeling the flush begin to creep up his neck when, just like so many years ago, she leaned in and pushed her lips to his.

* * *

It was just like she remembered. Just as it ought to be. Achingly perfect.

When she pulled away, his brow was furrowed, and for a terrifying moment she thought that he was upset. Instead, he took a shaky deep breath and pulled her in again.

He broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers. "Are you going to leave again?"

She thought of India. She thought of Henry, of a marriage that would be perfect if it was enough to just be very good friends, to know each other well without mutual desire. She thought of the daughter that wasn't, the home that wanted to be, the love that wouldn't.

She thought of decisions made decades ago, about the sense of duty that bound her to them. About whether that was truly enough by itself, to keep her in one place.

She thought of Jacob, of the crumbling moment when she thought he was gone. Of opportunities lost. She thought of her remaining years, limited and precious, of what it was that she wanted from them.

She felt his fingers pressed to her waist, the tremor in his voice, thought of his long dark eyelashes.

"No," she said quietly. "No, I think I'll stay here."


	15. Epilogue

**1916**

A warm spring breeze wafted through the kitchen window, ruffling Evie's hair as she did the washing up. Outside the window, over the hedges, empty fields stretched on for miles as they rolled into the distance towards the sea. Jacob's voice floated in from the back garden, his cane tapping along to the nuances of his story as he kept his audience's rapt attention.

 _A woolen blanket on the grass and soft sponge cake with jam, a determined effort to enjoy the last of the rare sunshine on a late summer day, Jacob's fingers softly on the nape of her neck and a smile on his lips._

"And that was when they jumped out at me, guns firing!" Jacob banged his cane on the ground for emphasis. "But the gas was about to blow- so I jumped out of an upper window by breaking through the glass, but I was sixty feet up and clear over a busy street- I had to swing madly to the next building over. Got banged up badly on the landing because I was young and stupid back then."

 _"_ _Granpa Granpa Granpa," Lydia wobbled up to them, back from her examination of some beetles, still lurching in that way of children who haven't quite learned to walk. She pointed imperiously at Jacob. "Granpa." Jacob grinned. "Quite right, clever girl."_

"Mr. Frye?" a timid voice asked. That's Noel, Evie thought, two doors down and eight years old, his Father and brother gone to France. "My Ma says that you're just making all of this up. You're not making this up, are you?"

 _Her little finger swung towards Evie, "Granaw. Granaw Granaw Granaw," she intoned, "Grand-aunt" having proved too much for her little lips. She smiled a toothy grin, achingly similar to Jacob's. "Cake?"_

A small female voice piped up. "Don't be silly, of course he's telling the truth. Mr. Jacob isn't a _liar_." Rose, Evie guessed, one block over, ten years old. Her father returned in a coffin and her mother was too sick to work. She should make sure the girl got some eggs before she left.

 _And then there was cake, because Grand-Aunt Evie always made sure there was cake, and because she could never say no to Lydia._

"Rose speaks sense," Jacob agreed, and there was a soft _thwack_ before Noel squeaked a bit. Evie tried to suppress a smile. He was a terror with that cane. "Do I look like a liar to you, lad?" A chorus of young voices assured him that no, he definitely did not look like a liar.

 _How could she say no? Because with Jacob tickling Lydia as she watched and laughed, she found that it was like an old wound healing over, a lost opportunity reborn in new form._

Evie was still smiling when there was a soft thump of mail landing on the front rug. She poked her head around the door and saw their address written in a precise and slanting hand, one that Evie had taught herself.

 _It was new life: not just in Lydia but in them, in two teacups set on the table every morning, two gauntlets polished every night, two bedrooms side by side- although one stayed suspiciously neat._

She quickly bundled some eggs in a kerchief and leaned outside, waving to get Jacob's attention. "I'm sorry everyone, but story time is over." There was a chorus of groans, from Jacob as well as the children.

 _It was training Lydia to throw unerring knives, showing her how to make Jacob's favourite mince pies at Christmas, teaching her to loop her y's neatly when she signed her name._

The eggs discreetly made their way to Rose's hands and Evie leaned over Jacob's ear. "Letter from Lydia," she said quietly. "I'll be in the drawing room."

 _It was outliving Father, producing a legacy, and giving it to new hands._

She put the kettle on while Jacob shooed the remaining shrieking children from their yard, threatening them with beatings that everyone knew would never come.

 _But most of all, it was the tender and gentle unfurling of years with Jacob._

She had the tea ready and was settled in with her knitting by the time she heard Jacob tumble through the back door. "Evie, where are m-"

"Your slippers are next to the bed."

 _Bickering and laughing._

"Oh. What about-"

"Reading glasses are on the table."

 _Teasing and kissing._

"And-"

"I've made you a cup of tea."

 _Loving._

There was a sheepish pause. "Oh. Excellent. Er, thank you."

 _And it was accepting that this love, this gift, that arrived in the unlikeliest of places and survived the worst of trials, was worth fighting for._

Evie had finished four rows of a new sweater by the time Jacob sank into his chair. He expertly sliced the envelope open and withdrew the paper carefully, clearing his throat as he adjusted his glasses. "Ahem. _Dear Grandpa and Grandaw…_ "

* * *

Jacob neatly folded the letter and set it aside, watching as Evie moved to the writing table and took up her pen. Her movements were still soft and fluid, even though he knew that she had aches and pains just as he did.

 _Frost on the windowpanes and candles flickering in their holders, the soft light casting shadows over her pale skin, blurring the years until she mirrored the girl he first kissed._

After she returned from India, he had basically stopped bothering with letters altogether. There was no one else really worth properly writing to.

 _A lump rose in his throat as she rolled over, still asleep, lashes fluttering against her cheeks. The light changed and she was older again, but somehow still miraculously_ here _, with him, in this room silenced by snow and night._

And besides, her writing was always much neater, and he hated the way that his hand would start to cramp after a few lines. Better to let her take care of their joint missives to Lydia.

 _Watching her move had always been like feeling time stop, whether she was spinning her cane with deadly precision or wrapped underneath him, arms around his neck and head thrown back._

Evie dipped her pen in ink and he thought of Lydia, far away, her letters heavily edited for risk of being opened and read by prying eyes. Another lifetime, many years ago, he and Evie could have been there with her, but those were days long past.

 _In every movement, to him, there would always be the risk that it would be the last he would see; that she could disappear again without warning and take everything he loved with her._

He took a sip of his tea. "Don't forget to tell her to be careful."

 _And yet, and yet, the years went by, and Evie was still there when he woke and reached out to feel for her, still lecturing him about his form when training together, still laughing when he whined and pulled faces at her because she brought out the most childish part of him._

Evie snorted. "When would I ever forget that? It's all we ever think about."

 _Still watching his back when there was any danger, still sighing when he pulled her in for a kiss, still coaxing him to cradle and soothe Lydia, assuring him that babies were much sturdier than they looked._

"And don't forget to tell her that she needs to watch her left side more, especially when she's using a gun- she always leaves it wide open, if any of those bastards were ever sharp enough to notice, it would just be a matter of time before they tried to take advantage-"

 _There was so much of Evie in Lydia, in the way she looked over a situation, in her careful assessment of risk, in her late-found certainty of the rightness of their cause._

"We've told her about a thousand times, Jacob, I doubt she'd appreciate hearing it again."

 _She was the best of both of them, the best of Emmett and Jane, drowned in love from the moment that she shrieked her way into the world._

"Even so, she can always use another reminder."

 _They were a ramshackle family with secrets and a cobbled together sense of unity. Not to mention, of course, the strangest of family occupations._

"Fine." He could hear the smile in Evie's voice, even with her back to him. "I'll include it, but I'm telling her that you insisted, so you can face her irritation alone."

 _But as long as Evie was beside him, he didn't give a damn about what anyone else thought._

Jacob huffed and pointed a stern finger. "As if she would dare be irritated at advice from her wise and esteemed Grandfather, whose flawless council she follows in every way."

 _And there she was, still there, still smiling._

Evie's pen was gliding along the paper, filling the page with news of their chickens and the weather near the coast and the million normal things that people clung to during war. "Follows in every way indeed. She's had you wrapped around her little finger since she smiled at you at barely two months old."

 _Still laughing._

He made a scoffing noise. "All of the women in my life have nothing but the highest degree of respect for me."

 _Still beside him._

"Of course, Jacob."

 _And whether it was right or wrong, he would defend it to his death._

He settled back into his chair with a smile and closed his eyes, listening to the scratch of Evie's pen and the soft birdsong outside. 

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading!** Every author appreciates feedback, and I'd love to hear your thoughts. :) If you'd like to read more about this universe, there are extended one-shots, a prequel, and an in-process sequel happening over at AO3 where I write under the same name.


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